


A Dark and Endless Night

by XmagicalX (Xparrot)



Series: Dark Night [1]
Category: Forever Knight, The Sentinel
Genre: Crossover, Dark, Gen, Post-Canon, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-09-11
Updated: 1998-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xparrot/pseuds/XmagicalX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new danger stalks Cascade, and the greatest threat is to Jim and Blair...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dark and Endless Night

**Author's Note:**

> Sincere thanks go all around. To my beautiful beta Becky, first one I've had and the best thus far ;) To Signe, for eloquent moral support when I much needed it. And to my sister and 'Leya, both of whom convinced me to send this out. Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Although this is technically a Sentinel/Forever Knight x-over, don't worry if you're unfamiliar with FK—the emphasis is on TS, and there's only one major FK char present. Even if it's confusing at first, all should eventually make sense. I hope!
> 
> Warning: Title withstanding, this is quite dark. It's hard to do light vampires, and since I've been rereading Anne Rice this is probably going to be darker than I intended...might even deserve an 'R' rating. Depends how squeamish you are about blood...
> 
> 2nd Warning: If you're acquainted with both the shows, yes, I know the dates don't match up. Sorry. Continuity's never been my strong point ;-)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Sentinel chars are the property of Pet Fly. Forever Knight chars belong to Parriott and various other ptb. Story by ERK (c) 1998.

Afterwards he went west. Away from the rising sun, skimming just ahead of dawn when he traveled. He paused briefly along the way before finally settling at the coastal city. A short break, while he journeyed nowhere and everywhere.

He wasn't escaping from the police. Even when mortal, he had been in authority, never submitted to it; now so long past that he was untouchable. Yet he was fleeing all the same.

It wasn't the first time he had left behind a body for them to find, nor the last. But perhaps it was the first time the crime truly touched his long-dead conscience, his non-existent soul crying out with the pain of loss, of guilt. An aching, empty hole in his very self.

Screaming until it was so loud he would do anything to silence it, anything to fill the void, and neither law nor conscience could deny him his desire.

 

* * *

"I've been talking to Interpol," Simon Banks announced, throwing down the case file. "This is just the latest. Started into Toronto three months ago, one, possibly two of the Toronto PD's own dead by this monster. You can draw a line across Canada and the States, a murder here, a murder there—and then we get to Cascade and somebody got stuck. This is it, the buck stops here—I don't care what's happened in other cities, nobody's getting away with this in my precinct."

"Yes, sir," Jim Ellison agreed wholeheartedly. He took no offense at his captain's tone. Three homicides in one week put him in an equally pissed off mood. And that was only in Cascade; learning that their string had a much longer tail made it far worse. Given the distinctive nature of the murders, the whole thing reeked of a serial killer.

Almost automatically he glanced at his partner. Blair was sitting uncharacteristically still; his heartbeat had accelerated a hair with Simon's words. It wasn't the captain's anger but what he had reported that disturbed the anthropologist. Serial murderers touched a sensitive nerve, called up unpleasant memories they'd both just as soon forget.

Of course in both their cases this made them that much more determined to catch this guy.

 

* * *

"I've never seen anything like this," the coroner confessed as they quizzed him about the latest body. Jim went over it briefly himself, found nothing extraordinary that enhanced Sentinel abilities could detect. Blair managed to guide him through the process by keeping his eyes carefully averted from the corpse. The pathologist, familiar with the two, made no comment on either Ellison's hands-on investigation or Sandburg's greenish hue.

Cause of death clear: massive blood loss. "This woman's missing over three quarters of her plasma," the doctor reported with a hint of intrigued excitement. "For that much to be gone they must have been using suction of some type—the heart wouldn't be able to pump it all out. Her veins are virtually empty; some have even collapsed. That could be the true cause of death, actually, even before the exsanguination killed her—far as I can tell it was drained in a minute flat."

"There was no blood at the scene," Blair remarked from the corner of the room he had retreated to.

"Yeah, I heard that. We're talking one slick customer. The corpse wasn't moved from all I can tell—dirt on the shoes, traces on the clothing all match the location."

"They took the blood so neatly none was spilled," Jim said.

"In one minute, too," the pathologist reminded him. "Either this is a Red Cross Blood Wagon worker with an extremely dedicated work ethic, or—" and his eyes lit with unholy fire, "it's a vampire."

Jim glared down at his smiling face. "People are dead here."

"I know, I know. That wasn't a joke—I haven't shown you the best part." Without any sign of discomfort he turned the dead woman's head aside, swept back the hair to reveal the neck. "Look at this." One gloved finger indicated the jugular. In specific, the pair of small round wounds perforating the skin, only a few centimeters apart. "These are the only lesions on the entire body," the pathologist said in a suitably hushed voice.

He broke the mood fast enough by adding, "Well, a couple paper cuts, but she was a secretary after all. I've gone over it with a magnifying glass, and there's no needle marks anywhere. Those," again he pointed to the wounds, "weren't caused by a needle. Too big, too irregular. Could be from thorns or claws, but I'm betting on teeth. Of course, they are far too small to account for this kind of blood loss—but that never bothered Count Dracula."

 

* * *

"And the other victims had the same marks, same place," Blair reported wearily later as they reviewed the other cases, those from both Cascade and Interpol. He shoved the stack of files aside and tossed his glasses on top of them, rubbing his eyes. "You know, Dan's vampire theory is sounding better all the time."

"It's hardly his theory," Jim replied sharply. "Every pathologist report we have makes some such reference. What it means, Chief, is that we're dealing with a guy that thinks he's a vampire."

"Yeah, and he's pretty damn good at playing the part, too. Wonder where he buys his super-suction plastic fangs?"

"Sandburg." Ellison's frustrated growl brought Blair back on track. The Sentinel softened slightly at his mumbled apology. "It's okay, Chief, we just have to stick to this and forget the Gothic stuff for now. Commonalties in the victims, that's what we need. Figure out how this guy thinks and we can get inside his head, find him before he chooses his next victim."

"Dunno if he chooses them, man." Blair leaned back. "I mean, I know Lash—" he swallowed, continued, "Lash took real care, picking out who he wanted. But this guy, whoever—he's bringing them down so fast he can't be too choosy. Three in six days doesn't leave much room for being finicky. And the types—"

"A secretary and two homeless men in Cascade," Jim recited. "All in the same part of town. In the other cities, Canadian and US, a mix of vagrants, gang members, couple of random others."

"He's taking them off the street, man. He just goes out at night and snags whoever walks by. What kind of reason is in that?" Blair demanded. "I mean, even Lash, he had a purpose, he was getting identities. Revenge, well, I don't quite get it, but at least I see it, you know? And to some serial killers, it's the true way to know a person, or to possess someone they 'love' in their twisted way—"

"And for some it's for the thrill of murder," Jim said grimly. "Which could be what we have here. It's the death. Doesn't matter who, or where, just what."

"And how." Blair paused. "And when. Always at night." He went silent.

"I know it doesn't make sense," his partner spoke quietly. "It's something you'll learn that you won't understand—I hope you never do. But some people are monsters. No reason, no purpose. They just are. They do things and we have to stop them. If we get too caught up trying to figure out 'why', when there isn't an answer—"

"But what if there is?" Blair interrupted. His protest was soft. Jim waited patiently for him to go on, "What if there is a reason?"

"Why, then?"

"Nourishment." Blair took a breath, went on before he could be cut off. "Blood. Drinking blood, there's lots of cultures with rituals around that concept. Animal blood and human blood. Human blood is always the most powerful—sacrifices, and eating the sacrifices, and drinking the blood. Even Christianity has the concept. It doesn't matter where the blood's from—well, yes it does. Usually it does. But not always; the most important thing is that it's from a human; if they're not picky about who..."

"Are we talking about a cult here?"

Before Jim could consider the possibility Blair responded, "No. No, look, everyone agrees that this is one individual. Drinking blood for strength, for power, for immortality..." He hesitated. Decided to continue before he was stopped, "Vampires, the idea is ancient. It's in all sorts of cultures, all over the world, these common elements. The blood-drinking, of course. But the other stuff, too. Afraid of sunlight, great strength, live forever unless they're killed. And that's hard to do.

"There's all the old European stuff, the nosferatu to Dracula, but there's so much more, too. The ancient Meso-americans, Mayans and Aztecs, they had these sort of demi-gods, jaguar men, people with jaguar teeth. And those peoples all gave blood sacrifices to their deities. The Chinese—"

"What are you talking about, Sandburg?" demanded Jim. "Real vampires?"

"I'm just saying that we should be open to possibilities—"

"You sound like you're starring in 'The X-files'. I liked the cult idea better, Chief." Jim shook his head. "These are all myths you're talking about—"

"And until I found you almost all I knew about Sentinels were myths."

Touche. Jim wondered how many times to come would Blair invoke that particular clause. Aloud he snapped, "Open minds are one thing, empty ones are another—honestly, that theory's just nuts. Simon would give us hell for mentioning it, the rest of Major Crimes would laugh their asses off, and most importantly, it isn't doing anything to get this solved."

Blair was suitably crestfallen at the rebuke. But his eyes sparked as he asked of his partner, "What's up with you, man? Biting my head off for a passing theory?"

"Sorry." Jim was honestly apologetic. "I know you weren't really serious about it, still, I don't want you to lose all the credibility you've deservedly gained just because you're spouting your usual nonsense. Not everyone's immunized to it like me," and he essayed a grin.

Blair shook his head. "No go. I want to know what's bugging you, man. You've been digging into this case worse than ever, since Simon officially gave it to us this morning you haven't stopped pushing. Don't you think half past seven's about time for a break?"

Immediately he denied this, then saw the vindicated gleam in his partner's eye and knew the truth would come out eventually. Surrendering, he explained, "We need to do as much as we can tonight. The feds show up tomorrow morning to take over; we'll be downgraded to assistants. I don't want to be making coffee runs for a pair of suits while there's a killer loose in my city. I don't care where else he's been or what he did there; all I need to know is that he's here, killing people here, and I'm going to stop him. We're going to stop him."

"Tonight?" Blair's eyebrows raised, but he had no other comment.

Especially after Jim answered, "If we can." They both knew 'the sooner, the better' took on a whole new meaning for cases such as this.

The Sentinel tapped the pile of files. "The three murders here in Cascade were all within a couple of blocks of each other. It's starting to get dark outside, that's the killer's chosen hour. I'm going to go to the locations where the bodies were found, see what else I can find, and if I scare up some suspects, all the better. You—" he hesitated. "You can drive. If you want to come."

"Yeah, right, I'm going to sit at home watching TV while you're drawing the eye of a lunatic." Blair snorted. "Not likely, and I'll tell you now, I ain' t keeping in the truck, either. In case you have some strange idea I'm going to listen to you this one time..."

The desire to keep his friend safe and protected warred with his need for backup. The need won. "All right. But if I find you suddenly following around a pale woman with sharp teeth you're going home, capiche?"

"No problem, man." He shrugged into the jacket Jim handed him, followed his partner out the door and down to the pickup.

It wasn't until he was closing his door that he said, under his breath at a level Sentinel hearing could only just make out, "I _was_ serious."

 

* * *

Three different sites, and nothing at any of them except a couple of spots of paint marking the positions of the bodies before they were carted away. Jim invoked his full array of abilities, sight, smell, touch, anything to find a single remaining trace.

He found a couple of dots of blood that had been missed. Hardly enough to account for the loss, but possible confirmation of the pathologist's report—the corpses had been left where they had fallen. The killer wasn't hiding his tracks with that kind of subterfuge.

But however he was hiding them, he did such a good job that a trained Sentinel couldn't find a single clue. No single hair, no odd grain of mud, not even a distinctive aftershave. By the third site Jim was beginning to lose his temper; the only thing that held it was Blair's calming hand on his arm, a nudge in the ribs with his elbow. "So the guy's good—we're still better. We'll prove it. And Simon's not going to just throw us off this case, you know that, Jim. We'll find something sooner or later—"

"But probably not before another death," Jim growled the reminder. "The first corpse was reported five days ago, had been dead for about twenty-four hours. The second was killed the next day, and the woman two days after that. And she was two nights ago, so there's another murder due."

Blair glanced around the shadowed street. Not the best neighborhood even in daylight when there wasn't a killer wandering the sidewalks. At night it was enough to make him step that much closer to his Sentinel. He wasn't above showing fear. Not when there was good reason for it.

There were vagrants, homeless people, stumbling across the street or already curled up under cardboard and ragged coats, wedged between brick walls and boxes. There were a few guys, boys, running around far past their bedtime, wearing black leather and brandishing switchblades. And older ones in alleys; they had concealed guns to back their attitudes. There even was a couple taking a stroll, jeans and t-shirts, not a formal date, and from their easy chatter accustomed to both the block and each other.

A strange mix of humanity, a fascinating display of an American society, and Blair had to forcibly remind himself that any one of them could be the man—or woman?—that they hunted; any of them could be the killer.

Or more likely, any of them could be the killer's next victim. It sent a shiver down his spine, he who had so nearly fallen prey to one of the monsters Jim had mentioned. One of the most horrifying experiences of his life thus far, something too terrible to even repress, and he would do almost anything to spare someone else that fear. If that meant following Jim through these dark streets after hours, so be it.

A sudden high sound on the edge of his hearing caught his attention. He was about to remark on it when he saw Jim, riveted by the noise Blair could barely make out, head cocked in his standard listening angle and his expression as rigid as it ever became. "What is it?" his Guide asked, softly, soothingly.

Jim shook himself free of the sound's spell. "You can't hear—it's a woman, screaming," and he took off down the street, pulling his gun from his holster. Blair pelted after him, half praying this would be a false alarm, half hoping that it wasn't. This might well be the break they needed...

By the time they reached the corner she had gone silent, Blair didn't try to imagine why, and no matter, because Jim had already pinpointed the cry. He would have kept running but the Sentinel grabbed his shoulder, ordered, "You stay behind me," in a voice that brooked no contradiction.

Gulping for breath Blair nodded agreement, closely followed Jim down the street. People around them flowed out of their way, keeping back from the gun, or perhaps only trying to stay uninvolved. Jim didn't even seem to notice as they moved off his warpath, focused as he was on his mission. Before they reached an alley in the center he put a finger to his lips, met Blair's eyes and tilted his head toward it. His eyes were narrowed, angry in the streetlight.

He was hearing something. This might be it—Jim raised his gun and stepped in front of the mouth of the alley. "Freeze!"

A second passed and Blair felt his heart begin beating again. Jim waved him forward. The Sentinel was crouched by a man lying on the cold pavement. Shaking him. "Where'd they go, did you see them?"

The man's head lolled back and forth. He didn't speak, or couldn't. In the dim light Blair could barely make out the bruise spreading across his temple; he had been hit, by a weapon or a fist like iron. Definite concussion and there might be worse damage; with an ease of long practice he whipped out his celphone and dialed 9-1-1. Summoned an ambulance while Jim turned in circles, trying to pick up some clue.

"Up!" the man gasped suddenly, his eyes snapping open. He struggled; Blair gently pushed him down. "He—from above, and then—lifted her—" With one arm he pointed to the fire escape above their heads.

Jim frowned, then without delay clambered atop the dumpster aside them, from there leapt to the escape's landing. Blair scrambled after him, using a garbage can for a boost to the dumpster and Jim's assistance to make it to the landing. The window there had been smashed, the crossbeams hanging from the frame and shards of glass forming a jagged dark hole. Jim entered without a second thought, Blair behind him.

Shadowy floor lit only by the streetlamps' glow through the windows. At first he could see nothing, was grateful that Jim's vision was far clearer. Then the Sentinel was again shouting, "Freeze!" and Blair's eyes managed to pick out two figures, not at all distant. Tall man and a woman in his arms.

At Jim's shout he released her. The body fell to the floor with a sickening thud, long hair draped over her face. And the man turned to them, snarled. Like a cat or a dog, not at all a human sound.

In the streetlight his eyes reflected orange, fiery circles. Demon's eyes. Demon's teeth bared when he snarled again, human lips drawn back from jaguar fangs. And his face was pale, as marble is pale, as bone is pale.

But his form was a man's, and the long dark coat he wore as men do. And he paused at the gun, wide brilliant eyes flickering from it, to Jim—

To Blair, and he felt a chill like a freezing draft, shivered under that furious glare. No sanity in those inhuman eyes, no reason. He felt trapped, deer in headlights, and then they were no longer looking at him but at Jim again.

The Sentinel's gun didn't waver as he glared into those golden orbs. Not even when the creature took a slow, deliberate step forward. His movements were nearly human, slightly too smooth, too predatory. "Don't move," Jim ordered again.

Another step in their direction, and Jim readied his gun. Then both froze, cocked their heads in a mirrored pose of listening.

A moment passed before Blair could make out the approaching sirens. They seemed the only sound, the rest of the world mute, and then the creature spoke. Low voice, harsh and rasping, but the words were clear, "Later." And then, "You didn't see me." Nothing special in the way it spoke, a slight accent but no noticeable inflection. Except for the way it resounded in the terrible pressing stillness, Blair struggling under the weight of that silence.

And the man, the creature was gone. No motion slow enough for the human eye to catch, the air itself hardly disturbed by his passage. Blair lunged forward, dropped to his knees by the woman's body. Even before he felt her neck for a pulse he knew it was hopeless; the skin had already begun to cool. Withdrawing his hand his fingertips brushed against her throat, against the two tiny bumps swelling on the principle artery.

Puncture wounds. Mark of the vampire's teeth.

 

* * *

They didn't believe him, and Blair didn't push the issue. It would be easier if he could believe himself, if he could be entirely sure that what he had seen had, in truth, been there.

But he had no proof, and wasn't sure he wanted any. And Jim hadn't seen it.

"I saw the body," the Sentinel told him for the fifth time. "Only the woman's body. No one even fleeing, and I couldn't sense anyone—-we must have just missed him." And then he thought to ask, "What did you think you saw?"

"I'm not sure." Blair shoved his hair out of his face. "I don't know." Briefly he described it. Glowing eyes and pointed fangs on an all-to-manlike body.

Jim wore carefully attentive expression, but unhappy worry was evident in his eyes. "Blair, I hate to say this, but it's been a tough few days. It was late, it was dark, and you had vampires on the brain. Maybe you caught a glimpse of the guy that I missed somehow, but what you're saying—there's no way I'd have missed it. And I didn't see him."

You didn't see me. The vampire's command.

Or a figment of an overactive imagination, which Blair would be the first to admit he possessed. There was no way Jim could have been hypnotized into forgetting in less than a minute; no one was that prone to suggestion. On the other hand, Blair's own mind had had plenty of time to form elaborate fantasies.

He dismissed his vision with a certain sense of relief. Such things as vampires were interesting to speculate about but, comfortingly, they could not exist in the rational world.

The two federal agents that arrived at the station would have been mollified to hear this admittance. As it was they frowned when Jim even mentioned the word 'vampire' as the killer's possible motivation. From the way they spoke, they had been mistaken for Mulder and Scully in the past and were not pleased by the comparison. Especially as people in general preferred the television agents over their own selves.

The cult suggestion was more appealing, though they rejected it as well on the grounds of the crimes being the work of an individual. From there they went off on a tangent about copy-cat killers and Jim gracefully slipped away, returned to his desk to confer with his partner.

"You should be over there with the good Agents Grimm," he muttered. "You're the one with the psych degree."

"I only minored in it," Blair argued distractedly.

Jim frowned. "All right, what's bothering you now?"

His partner sighed. Tapped his fingers on the desk and watched them move before answering. "I've been trying to forget—but I can't. Any more than you can remember. Jim, I saw something last night. I know that much. I don't know what it was, or if what I saw was precisely what was there, but—something was. Something you overlooked entirely, and I don't know why." You didn't see me. "But someone was there, the killer was there. And what I saw of him made Bela Lugosi look like Mickey Mouse."

Jim lowered his voice a little more. "I was hoping that wasn't it. Chief, you've got to get over this nonsense." He didn't sound angry, more concerned. "It's got you scared enough you're not thinking right, and I need you with your brains on track. Yes, this guy's a monster. He's evil, but he's not supernatural. He may be drinking blood—but he's not rising from a coffin to do it."

"Have you ever heard of zombies?" Blair asked suddenly, also softly. "Voodoo black magic, people that seem dead, no heartbeat, no breathing, but they're walking? What about Indian fakirs who can stop their hearts and levitate? Or firewalkers who don't get burned? Science doesn't know how they do this stuff. But they do it. I've seen some of it. 'There is more to heaven and earth—'"

"'--than is dreamt of in your philosophy.' I did pass sophomore English."

"Then listen to it, man. Why do you have such a hard time with this? Come on, Jim, science doesn't even have full explanations for your senses. You've, we've both seen things. Why shouldn't we at least consider this?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Okay, Chief, want the honest answer?" At Blair's eager nod, "I just don't buy vampires. I never have. I don't even have fun watching vampire movies or anything—well, I did read Emily Weis, but so did everyone else. She had the best presentation, and still—it doesn't jive.

"I mean, forget the fact that they can live forever when there isn't anything else on the planet that doesn't age. Just look at the blood-drinking. If there's all these vampires running around sucking people dry, how come Dan said he'd never seen anything like it before? He's been a coroner for twenty years, he's encountered plenty of wild things. And not one of the other pathologists' reports mentioned similarities to any other murder. This so-called vampire's been killing at least a couple times a week, why is he so hungry if the others run on empty?"

"Maybe there aren't that many others," Blair objected. Not sure why he was arguing so strenuously, except that there was something here, something more than what they were saying. "Or maybe when they kill they aren't so obvious, maybe the signs haven't been noticed before. Maybe he's not being as careful as other vampires." In his mind's eye he saw a flashbulb memory of the man's eyes, those burning amber circles. Fury and madness. "Maybe he's insane."

"An insane vampire," Jim echoed flatly. "Will you please forget this, Chief?"

Blair agreed to aloud, but privately made no promises. Once in his thoughts he couldn't avoid the image of the creature's eyes. When he closed his own they floated there in the blackness, above white teeth. Tongue moving behind the fangs as the thing spoke. "You didn't see me." But he had. Even if Jim hadn't. He had.

And Jim had shouted freeze, aimed his gun at someone he never saw.

And the man had stopped, dropped the woman he had murdered, drained of blood, same as the others. Glared at them with his fiery eyes, began to stalk toward them, before the ambulance's approaching sirens halted him.

He had spoken twice. Before the order, his burning eyes locked with Jim's, and he had said, "Later." One word, not a command. A promise. His victim, his latest carnage at his feet, and he had told the Sentinel that he would return. For him, for Jim. To continue the assault he had begun.

He pulled his victims off the street, Blair had thought. Not choosy, taking whoever was unlucky enough to walk close enough to be ambushed. Last night it had been two, and he had knocked down one to take the other.

But now he had chosen, now he would be hunting Jim. Would he wait for another night to pass or would he be impatient, now that he had selected a target, anxious to take him down with that same unbelievable speed with which he had slain the rest.

And Jim had no idea, no memory of the hunter's vow.

Too well now, Blair remembered the impossible swiftness of his actions, the instant it had taken him to vanish. The power in his glowing eyes, in his hissed voice, freezing Jim in his tracks. And when he had cocked his head, the same moment as Jim, hearing the sirens long before Blair. His hearing was equal to the Sentinel's, his other senses might also be so enhanced.

Blair glanced at his watch. A good four hours before sunset. Vampire or mad human, he had always killed at night, and hopefully he wouldn't break that habit now. "Jim, just remembered, I have to go the University to pick up some things. Mind if I head out now?"

"Sure. See you tonight."

"Well—" Blair hesitated. "I might be out tonight, don't know when I'll get in."

Jim narrowed his eyes. "Ah, so that'd be a date you're picking up."

He tried his best to look suitably caught. "Yeah, something like that. You don't mind..?"

"I'd say you could use the break." Jim smirked. "Good luck, Sandburg, hope she doesn't let you down too hard."

"Yeah, thanks a lot. I'll tell you all about it—tomorrow morning." He grinned, waved and left before Jim could hear how fast his heart was thundering.

An hour later he stood on the sidewalk in front of the building they had entered the previous night. It was abandoned, windows on the first floor boarded up with plywood eye patches, the other floors' either nailed shut as well or sporting a patchwork of cracked panes of glass. Going around to the side alley he climbed to the same entrance as before, a struggle without Jim's assistance. At last he stood on the floor, gazed out at the flat expanse. All partitions had fallen, leaving an empty floor like a low-ceilinged gymnasium. Musty and blanketed with cobwebs, but not spooky as it had been at night. With the sunlight shafting through the broken windows it felt only lonely.

He walked to the center, sneakers thumping on the bare floor. Looking down at his feet he saw the spraypaint marks denoting the woman's fallen body. Right here, last night, the man had stood, threatening them with that unreal animal snarl and his impossible eyes. And Jim had seen nothing.

Blair strode the rest of the way across the floor. The man had fled, faster than sight, away from them. But opposite was only windows. Most were broken but when Blair looked out there was no fire escape, not even a dumpster for him to land in. How had he escaped in this direction? There was a door leading downstairs on either side, but both were locked, still secured.

No one here now. He left the same way he had come, dropped back down to the alley and headed back onto the street. Looking for anything, as they had been last night. Some tiny hint. As he walked he stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, feeling what he had brought after a few minutes' frantic research in the library.

A bulb of garlic, in the tradition of Dracula. A paperback copy of the Bible, and a small silver crucifix, gift from an acquaintance unaware of his religion. A knife, a switchblade Jim didn't even know he had in his desk drawer. And even worse, Jim's backup revolver, from his bureau. Jim would not be pleased to learn he had taken it. But despite his aversion to guns he knew how to use them, and hopefully the threat would be enough.

That is, if the man was in fact human. Against a vampire the consensus was generally knives over bullets. Wooden stakes were best, of course, but they wouldn't fit so well in his pocket and he doubted he had the ability, physically or emotionally, to drive a stake into the chest of a man. Or even a fiend with a man's form.

He paced the streets for an hour, taking a rough circuit around the area of the four kills. The sun's rays cast ever longer shadows as it lowered in the sky, and he considered returning to the loft. Tell Jim that the date had been rejected. Or even tell him the truth, admit to this fruitless and most likely pointless search.

Blair drove most of the way back, stopped a block away and rethought his decision. Tonight, or tomorrow night, it was coming, it would come. He couldn't convince Jim, but he had already convinced himself beyond the point that he could change his mind. Protecting his Sentinel from danger, wasn't that one of the many unwritten principles of their code? Even as Jim protected him.

But the safest way would be to explain it all. Find a way to get through to Jim. Even if he refused to believe it could be...supernatural—he would listen to the threat. He would trust Blair's belief of the danger; he knew Blair didn't panic without reason. The foundation of their relationship, all its myriad angles depending on that trust. Trust in the other, in their abilities and in what they knew. Jim would listen to him, perhaps not believe all of it, but enough that when he was attacked he would not be unprepared.

With that hope in mind, Blair pulled up in front of the loft, already planning his words. They needed to have conviction without sounding obsessive or pushy—

As he climbed out of his car the back of his neck suddenly prickled, and with an innate sixth sense he knew he was being watched. He scanned the street unobtrusively, spotted the figure. The other side of the street, standing in the mouth of an alley hunched in his black longcoat.

Trying to appear casual, Blair crossed the street. He cast a glance at the sky as he walked. The sun had dropped behind the buildings but the hues of the clouds showed it hadn't yet fallen below the horizon. And the man had been pressed in the shadows of the alley.

Blair thrust his hands in his pockets, one curled around the gun butt, the other wrapping his fingers through the chain of the crucifix. Striding forward with his eyes on the ground as if searching for something, he began passing the alley. Stopped halfway, straightened and turned.

The man was still there, almost a shock in itself. Leaning slightly against the brick wall beside him, watching him still, an amused look to his arched eyebrow.

A large man, as the one last night had been, and his coat was just as dark. But his eyes were blue, an odd shade of light blue but no hint of orange flame. And though he was pale, it didn't seem to be the bone-white pallor of the monster.

The face though—not twisted in that animal anger, lips not drawn back from fanged teeth, but it was the same face. Hard to judge his age, forties, maybe entering fifty. The short brushy hair was gray but his face had few lines.

The face of the monster. Blair took a quick breath. He could see no recognition in the other's expression, hoped he was keeping it out of his own. "Excuse me, I'm looking for something I lost, can you help?"

The man met his eyes, still with that slightest sneer. "Of course." Deeper and not as harsh, but the same voice, the very same. "What do you seek?" Accented, cultured, but the vampire's nonetheless.

Blair reached into his pocket. "It was a match to this," and he took out the crucifix, chain wrapped around his fingers, the tiny cross resting on his knuckles.

If he hadn't been watching so intently he would have missed the barest widening of the man's eyes, the fraction of an inch he recoiled from the object. "No, I'm afraid I haven't seen anything like that," he purred, and slowly his eyes rose from the cross to Blair's face.

No golden flame in them, but for an moment in their depths flashed that madness he had seen last night, in the human face a flicker of insanity that had nothing human about it.

As he began to take a step backwards, a hand lashed out faster than a striking snake, grabbed his wrist and pulled him close. "You did see me," the man hissed, and now his voice was identical to the rasp of the monster's, "how strong a memory you have, how resistant a mind."

It wasn't until he tried to pull away, when he felt the man's grip as solid as an iron band, that Blair realized how gravely he had miscalculated, his only comfort lying in the confirmation of how little chance Jim would have had against the vampire.

 

* * *

At last the sun completely vanished, and through the air he dragged his latest prey with him to his current hidden place. Unlike any of the many others this mortal struggled in his hold, beat at him, kicked when his arms were locked to his side. He had to clamp one hand over his mouth to prevent him from screaming.

He truly was different. The previous night he had seemed inconsequential, shadowed by his companion's fierce attitude, his driving determination. Yet it was this one, this small man who had sought him, who had gathered the accouterments of a vampire hunter and pressed out on his own in search of the demon killer.

It was this man who remembered despite his command. How could he have guessed that this young man, he looked almost a boy, could resist him for all his age? He hadn't encountered a mortal so powerful in far too long.

Dropped, the man immediately rolled onto his feet. From his pocket he withdrew a gun and brandished it threateningly. With his free hand he took out a cellular phone, hit a button while his eyes never left the vampire's face.

So simple a matter, to twist out of the line of fire and pluck the phone from his hands, crush it to meaningless sparks and bent plastic. Then he took the gun before the trigger could be squeezed, flung it out the window and smiled benignly on his would-be shooter.

The man's eyes were so wide they were round, white completely surrounding the blue iris. They darted from one side to the other, and then he ran. Feinted one way and dashed in the opposite direction, ducking as if to clear a low ceiling. Heading for the nearer door, such a quick mind, to have already perceived an escape.

He allowed the mortal to get so close his fingertips brushed the doorknob before he moved, abruptly placing himself between his captive and his exit. "As you can see, they are quite futile, so please cease these efforts," he requested calmly. "They are of no help to you." No way to make him obey but to appeal to reason.

Backing again to the middle of the room the man stared at him, chest heaving, eyes if possible grown even huger. His dark hair curling about his face made his skin look all the paler, and his mouth gaped open as he stared at his hunter. Something in the childlike expression of innocent shock, the terrified amazement, was so achingly familiar he almost could laugh, almost could cry.

Then the man answered him, "All right." Resignation nevertheless tinged with defiance. Taking from this one would be the greatest he had had in so long. Feeding more than his body with the blood, feeding his spirit with more than the small doses of fear and horror and grief he had become accustomed to. It helped, every little stab of pain cutting away at the hole gaping inside, but this—this might block it, at least for a moment, the waters of Lethe flowing in this one's veins.

The mortal was talking again. Daring to speak under his gaze. "I know what you are, I know what you're doing, and why you took me. I'll let you—I'll let you feed, but I want an agreement."

"An agreement?" Hard to keep his voice deadpan when presented with such amusement. "What do you have to bargain with?"

"My—my blood," he managed, almost without stuttering. "If I'm not fighting you—if you can take all of it, would that be worth something? If I drop this?" And he held up his hand, the silver cross dangling from its chain.

It wasn't enough to stop him, the symbol never had been, and now even the blisters it would burn into his flesh would be less than nothing in the face of his greater pain. But the mortal clung to it with a belief hinged on desperation. What did he want, that he so boldly would tempt the vampire to get? "What would you bargain for?" he asked aloud. For what do you offer your life?

The man breathed deeply. His heart beat faster still, hammering in his chest, driving the blood so powerfully through his body. But his voice was steady. "You were hunting for my partner, or were going to. I want you to forget about him, since you have me."

Would that he knew that this bargain was already secured! He could barely recall his companion in the face of this mortal's strength. But to him he inquired, "Your partner?"

Another breath. "My friend. Last night, when we found you—he had the gun. The one you told you would stalk 'later', before you made him forget he ever saw you. He's my partner, we're police detectives."

He had supposed it before, but hearing it stated so plainly was like a physical blow, unexpected in the force it hit him with. He doubted the man even noticed the second he took to compose himself, hoped his weakness would not be so obvious. To be felled by nothing but the vaguest reminder—and yet he could picture this man, badge in hand, standing by his partner. Asking questions, good ones they would be, sharp insights into people's minds and actions, sliding pieces together to solve the puzzle. He saw himself standing as this man entered, interrogating him with a half-smile not entirely sincere or false. But even as he watched the features melted into more familiar ones, the voice altered to match one in his memory, darker blue eyes and far lighter hair and all that was the same was the boyish half-smile...

He wrenched himself free of the vision. Never again. Instead, calmly, he looked to the man before him, forced himself to see his face as it was, his smaller stature, nothing like the conjuration of his mind. Under his stare a flush rose to the man's cheeks, living blood running warm under the smooth skin, final proof of the difference. "So you wish to die?" he asked the mortal.

"No. More than almost anything I want to live," he denied. "But I won't let you kill my partner." Steadier than ever, as if rather than being unsettled he found strength in meeting his captor's eyes. So much strength to be found in him, so much vibrant power.

"Perhaps I wouldn't kill him," he said. Tossing out words to see what effect they would produce on that defiant expression. "Perhaps I saw the strength in him to make him as I am."

"A killer?" He sounded frankly surprised, almost contemptuous. "Jim wouldn't murder, not to live forever, or whatever devil's gift you'd offer him. He doesn't believe you, that your kind exists, but if he knew he'd hunt you. He'd stop you from ever taking another life."

"Even if he had to kill me to do so?" he murmured. "How ironic. Has he killed before?"

The man looked away. When he only kept gazing at him he finally turned back and met his captor's eyes boldly. "Yes. He has. But he's always been upset when he has to, and he will never kill anyone if there is another way to stop them. He saves lives, while you take them."

"I see. And you, are you like your partner, killing when necessary? Bringing down a criminal, a murderer, with a gun like the one you tried to shoot me with before?"

"I don't carry a gun. Usually," he amended. "I'm a police observer. And I've never killed anyone. I hope to God I never will."

"You mean to say you have never fired one of your weapons? Or taken a life some other way, watched their eyes darken and fade, looking at everything and then at nothing? Know in yourself that you were the stronger, that you have proved yourself to the world, in the most simple and crucial test of nature? There were times that a man was not considered a man until he had so triumphed over another man."

He made no effort to hide his disgust. "Times change, we learn from our mistakes. I've seen people die, and it's never a triumph. It's a failure. Not just for the one dead, but for all of us."

"Interesting. And yet you would not put such value on your own life."

The man eyed him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

"You go on about the glory of life," he explained, "yet you were so willing to die. Why is your own worth so little? An example: I was so fearful of what I would find in Hades that I choose this instead, to go on forever and give others to Pluto's realm instead. That is how highly I regarded life. You would abandon it—"

"That's a sign of how selfishly you guarded your own life," the mortal told him.

"So given the choice, you would take death?"

"Over becoming a killer? I think so. I wouldn't choose it if there were other options, certainly—I want to live." And he had battled for that right before. He saw it in the man's eyes, realized where the determination originated. This wasn't the first time he had danced along the line of life and death, fighting for one while courting the other.

"But you want your partner, your friend, to live more," he stated simply.

And there was no hesitation in the reply. "Yes."

Self-sacrifice, one of those many noble traits that elevated stupidity to a virtue. The man did it, with not an martyr's airs, but a plain, truly laudable certainty. And that was familiar and unfamiliar too, like and unlike. Everything about him so different and yet the same. The one had been a warrior with a scholar's leanings; now here was a scholar in the trappings of a warrior. The one had killed, this one never, yet both honored life, loved it with a passion only exceeded by the love they had for the lives of others. One was lightness surrounding a darkest self; the other a small dark-haired sheath that hardly covered the brilliance within.

And the one was dead, forever gone, and leaving endless pain in his wake, while the other stood living, breathing, giving friendship, joy, a happiness that could only be matched by the agony his loss would bring.

So many virtues, so many flaws, living and dead, and he as always had mastery over both, and wielding that power was the only way to keep it from burning, deadly as the sun. One had asked for death, the other asked for life, and he would grant requests as he saw fit.

He lifted his head, saw through the darkness the human fall back from his golden glare. Opened his mouth and the fangs descended, he leaping forward to seize the mortal. Lifted the small body in the air and plunged his teeth into the neck, piercing the skin so that the blood poured into his mouth, and he drank it down, the sweetest he had tasted for eight centuries it seemed.

 

* * *

Blair had retreated but one step when it was upon him. In his peripheral vision he made out the glowing eyes, like embers in the darkness, and then his head was roughly shoved back. Cold against his neck and then it burned, and he would have screamed had not a freezing hand wrapped around his throat, crushing the breath out.

One minute, that was how long the coroner had said it had taken for the other victims to meet their deaths, but this was more than a minute, far longer, hours and hours he hung helpless in the monster's grasp. At first it was agony shooting through his body, his limbs, every finger, every toe tingling as if pierced with needles. Gradually a cold numbness began to steal through them, crawling up his limbs, finally reaching his body, taking away the pain and leaving a void in its place.

It seemed that he could hear a heartbeat, thundering in his ears, stuttering with the speed of a jackhammer, but becoming slower and slower, at last beating at a normal rhythm. Then slower still, thumping like a ticking clock, and then the beats were so distant that he waited in torturous anticipation for the next one to sound, to prove itself alive.

He thought his vision should go dark, that even the golden gleam of the monster's eyes would fade, but instead everything grew lighter and lighter. Not yellow light but pure, starting with the gray of early dawn and brightening until it was white, whiter than anything, so blinding he forced himself to turn from it, his eyes closed.

"Come or go, which do you choose," demanded a voice, like no one's he had ever heard, and yet at the same time like his mother's, like Jim's, like Simon's, even like the monster's.

He stood at a door, a doorway on a cliff, the doorway leading anywhere, the cliff dropping into infinity, and an unknowable figure silhouetted between them. "You may come or you may go," spoke the voice through the figure, "but you must do one or the other."

"How should I decide?" he beseeched the figure, and then he heard the other call, a low and commanding tone, "Come back, come here," and he recognized the voice of the monster.

"Come here," the figure echoed, but his gesture was toward the door and not away.

"I can't," he gasped. No matter that he wanted to know what lay beyond that door; there was more he still needed to understand where he was, and so much left undone, and so much he couldn't abandon and would never do so willingly. "I can't, I can't leave Jim, I won't, if there's a choice."

"There is a decision," agreed the voice, but the tone was grieving, the figure mournful. All the same he turned from him, and followed the other, the voice of the monster. Not obeying the command. But taking what he offered, because it was the way to return, the only path he had back to Jim. Whatever sacrifice it was, his Sentinel was worthy of it. Their friendship was more valuable than life or death.

His mouth was filled with flame, with acid, with a raw choking energy, yet he wouldn't spit it out, instead he swallowed it down. Felt it burn through him, boiling away the cold inside him. He was no longer being gripped; instead he clutched the arm to him, his mouth fused to source of this terrible pleasure, suckling with intensity of a newborn. Every cell in his body demanded it, and the more they swelled with the nourishment the more they cried for it, and the stronger they became to take it.

The strength of this one was unbelievable; too soon he realized that he was the prey, that all he had taken would soon be drawn from his veins. He ripped free, clouted the newborn's head and knocked him to his knees, where he stayed unmoving, shoulders hunched and heaving, tangled dark hair hanging over his white face and shrouding the golden circles of his eyes.

Wolf's eyes, wolfen yellow eyes staring at him from the underbrush, and then the animal was bounding away. He pursued it, dodging through the blue twilit jungle. Barely halting in time to avoid tumbling into the abyss that yawned before him, the cliff walls plunging down to impossible depths, the bottom invisible even to his eyes.

He had been here before, and he looked around, waiting for the panther to come, or the Indian, or the Sentinel, whatever form his spiritual guide took from his unconscious. But instead he saw the wolf, still running, and as he watched the animal launched himself in a great leap over the edge of the cliff.

"No!" he shouted, but the deed was already done, the wolf suspended in freefall for the instant before gravity captured it.

When he stared at it he saw why, for its fur was on fire, its tail a flaming torch, its muzzle blackening, and then it was dropping, a falling star, casting ashes in a cloud around itself. Before he even lost sight of it the body had burned away in the air.

Jim Ellison jerked awake with his throat aching, his own scream ringing in his ears.

 

* * *

His newest one would not speak. Never had that happened to him before, that one he had brought across would lose their faculty. True, his intelligence glowed still in his amber eyes, but he was refusing to use it, refusing to respond, only glared with an impotent, paralyzed rage.

He didn't even have a name to call him by. Careless, to know so little before he created a child. But too late to undo the deed. Again it happened, as it always did, a life once taken could not be restored and once given could not be reclaimed. "You're hungry," he said, "Come with me and we'll feed."

No answer from his recalcitrant fledgling. Extending his hand he drew him to his feet, lead him unresisting to the windows. His eyes widened in momentary surprise as they leapt through them and glided to the pavement below. Yet still he said nothing, unnaturally silent. He stood on his own, looking so small, so young, a child in mind and body as well as in minutes from his rebirth.

Stepping into the street, he spied a young woman, nervously glancing behind herself as she hurried on her way. Running from something, or to, it didn't matter. He called her over. Pretty; not a painted lady; this one was looking to buy, not to sell, but her round face had natural beauty and her smooth brown skin was most attractive. He ran his fingers lightly down her arm; she shivered and he whispered, "Don't move, and don't be afraid; stand still, ma belle chere."

She relaxed and he summoned his fledgling. "She is here for you, she is for you, all for you. Drink, and you will feel better; drink and you will feel again, in the only way, in the greatest way." No response, and he continued, "It is what you are now, what you chose to be. You cannot deny what you are; to do so is to accept the death you rejected. You love life, feel hers," and taking his limp cold hand he pressed it to her breast. "Feel it warm, hear it beating, and you can taste it, quench your thirst. It's easy, drink as you drank before from me, drink from her life you love. This is what you are, this is how you are to love now."

At last he spoke, "No!" and wrested his hand away. "What did you do? No!"

"The deed is done," he reminded him, "Fait accompli, and all there is left is for you to drink from the fountain offered."

"No!" and the shout was more anguished and more defiant than he had ever voiced in life. Then he was running, slammed into the brick wall like a crazy man and kept moving, out of the alley into the street.

He didn't follow. For a moment he waited, listening to the muted sounds of the city's night, and then he lead the girl back onto the sidewalk. "Go on, go home, and don't come here again," he told her. "Forget us, and forget why you came, you have no need for that now." He left her leaning mutely against the plywood window, her senses beginning to return, while he retreated to the alley and took to the air. Not chasing, no. But he would see where his newest fled now, what he would do.

The blood that had taken him across was fueling him now, but soon enough he would drain that reserve, and then he would need prey. How would he reconcile that need with his so different self? What a paradox had been created, life's lover now life's destroyer. He had brought across a man too young to have lived, yet old enough to know what he had lost. A match for that one gone, a new one whose love for life and hatred of death were set against each other.

How long before he too would hunt for the impossible cure? Seek a nonexistent solution, what many men had sought and never found, a way to return life to one dead. Sooner or later he would begin that quest. And he, master, hunter, sire, would watch the search again, into the night pursue his newest, darkest son.

 

* * *

Jim dialed the number before looking at the clock. 1 AM. Too late; the phone was already ringing.

After five it was picked up. "Banks. This better be damn good."

"Simon, something's happened to Blair."

The captain paused for a medium length of time. "Okay, what is it? You at the hospital?"

"No. I'm at home. Sandburg's not here, he was supposed to be out with a girl..."

"So, he's probably spending the night over." Not an unusual situation, he could hear in Simon's silence. But he knew better than to ignore the hunches of his best detective pair. "What do you want me to do?"

"Get ready. I'll pick you up in a few minutes, if you're willing. I need to check a place out—I'd like backup."

And Simon would prefer that he had backup, enough to get out of his warm bed and dress for Jim to take them to the site. The detective drove with locked jaw, uncommunicative as only Ellison could be. The captain asked a few token questions, then rode the rest of the way in silence, allowing things to play out as they would.

When they stopped in front of the building, Simon decided it was time for at least a couple of answers. "Jim, this is the place you found the fourth victim. I doubt Blair would take his date on a tour of a murder site." The kid might act slightly touched but he was not foolhardy.

"He said he was going on a date—no, dammit, he didn't, he only implied it," Jim corrected himself. "I should have pushed him, I was just too wrapped up in this case."

"So why would he come here?" Simon asked carefully.

"He had this crazy idea about vampires—"

"Not so crazy. The suits are saying it's probably someone taking their role-playing a little too far."

"Not like that. He meant the real thing, he even told me he had seen one, last night, when we found the body. A demon man, fangs and glowing eyes included."

"I see." In a way. "Jim, what precisely did you see last night?"

"Nothing." Jim frowned. "I heard something, and the man pointed up, so we climbed up here. The window had been broken in, not too long before, and we went through." He paused, continued in a slower, more contemplative tone. "It was empty, except for her body, lying on the floor right where you saw it. She had only died a few minutes before—that's how close we were. A matter of minutes. But other than her I saw nothing." His frown deepened. "Nothing."

"But Blair did." Simon considered this. "He acts a little goofy at times, but he's got sharp eyes—not like yours, but I'd prefer his testimony over ten other eye witnesses'. Don't tell him I said so, but it's true. He lives up to the title of observer. If he said he saw something..."

"I know." Jim sighed. "I know. Dammit, I should have listened to him—"

"Jim," Simon demanded quietly, "what set off the late-night panic attack?"

"I had a dream." Glanced at his captain, looking for amusement or doubt, but only saw concern. "I had a dream, it was vivid, more real than they ever are, usually. I can still see it when I close my eyes..." He shuddered, minutely, but for Jim as telling as another man's sob.

"What'd you see?" Most people, he'd be strongly considering requesting a psych review. But with Jim and Blair such things were business as usual; if they worked, he wasn't going to comment. But he listened closely. "The panther?"

Jim shook his head. "No. I was at the cliff, though—when we were in Peru, finding you and Daryl, I was at a cliff. It might have been the same one. I was standing by it, and a wolf came running from the jungle and leapt over the edge. Simon, it was on fire, it burned to ashes as I watched it. As it dropped, the smoke was rising and its ashes were falling. I couldn't reach the wolf and it burned to nothing."

"What does it mean?" Simon's voice was quietly intense. He didn't understand these things, could never interpret visions like that, but this one made him ill, a strange hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"I..." Jim hesitated. "Last spring, you remember, before Megan went back to Australia. Alex Barnes, when she—" he broke off, no need to continue. That had been far too close. "A couple nights before that, I dreamed like this. I dreamed I saw the wolf, the same wolf, and I shot it. I killed it, and then its body turned into Blair, lying there in the jungle, dead..."

"I see," Simon murmured. A puzzle explained; he had often wondered about that brief time that Jim had forced Blair out of the apartment they shared. If he had suspected he would hurt his friend—one of the few constants of the universe was the length Jim would go to keep his partner safe. It was matched only by the distance Blair would go to do the same.

Which made this dream all the more harrowing. Little wonder Jim had disturbed his sleep. "Okay, if that's everything," he waited for the Sentinel's agreement, "then let's get up there." He prayed they would find nothing as he unlocked the padlock on the front door. Let Blair be at the home of whoever the woman of his dreams was this week, let this be all a false alarm.

He knew them too well to place much stock in that wish, though.

At first he almost thought it might have been granted, as they strode onto the second floor, the musty emptiness. He played his flashlight around the great room, Jim peering into corners without the aid of other illumination; what filtered in from the streetlamps was enough for his eyes. Nothing seemed changed; he couldn't tell if any of the tracks through the dust-covered floor were fresh, but he saw no other signs of entrance.

Then Jim crouched in the middle of the room, brushed his fingers along the floor, and Simon felt the same sinking feeling in his belly. The detective's jaw clenched that much more, one tic in the tight cheek, and he stood, intent on what had rubbed off onto his fingertips.

"What?" Simon asked, voice hushed.

"It's blood." His voice was flat, emotionless. "Fresh, spilled under an hour ago, I'd say. There's only a couple drops."

"But..?" He knew what was coming, simply wanted confirmation. Or better denial, but he knew it wouldn't happen.

"It's Blair's." And there it was. Simon didn't ask how Jim could know; that he knew was enough for him. "Someone else's, too. I don't think it's human, but I can't say what it is."

"Jim." Simon inhaled deeply, before he started to babble, spill out what he wanted to hear as much as Jim did. "There might be an explanation, a safe one. All the others, far as we know were left where they were killed. He drew them in, then killed them, nothing special." Except for last night, when he had apparently fled from them. But no need to mention that.

Not with Jim looking as he did, that tight expression, beyond fear or anger, deep in his eyes something burning, and deeper still something dying.

 

* * *

These weren't hunger pangs, not normal ones; they burned, his stomach, his throat, his mouth, all set flaming with thirst, as if he had drunk saltwater. Fire inside, and yet it was demanding fire to quench it, more of the liquid fire he had swallowed before. The heat flowing beneath the surface of every human.

But not under his, not now; when he touched his white wrists there was no pulse beating there, no blue vein written across the flesh. A corded ridge, like the vein, but it was as bleached as the skin around it. Empty. Inhuman.

He almost laughed. Not from humor but as release for the unknown emotion boiling up inside of him. Except when he tried only a rasp came out. A choking sound, like his vocal chords were working without air, without breath.

Not human.

Jim. Jim would know, would understand. Accept it even if he didn't, and find a way to make it right. He was a cop, that was what he did for a living, help people. This wouldn't faze him. Nothing would, if he was determined. Jim could fix even this. Nothing was quite impossible, not for him, his partner, his friend, his Sentinel.

He clawed his way to his feet, using the rough brick wall behind him for support. For a moment he stared around the alley, wondering at the colors hidden in the darkness, now revealed to his new eyes. Graffiti paint, rust-red bricks, even the dingy metal trashcans had taken on a luster in the moonlight. Was this what Jim saw, when he walked the night streets? This spectrum under the dirt and grime, this hidden display... How did he ever control it, how could he bear to look away from its brilliance?

Was he a Sentinel now as well, was he in truth seeing with Jim's eyes? Unnatural eyes...

He tried to laugh again, and again failed. Pushing himself forward he stumbled into the center of the alley, stood swaying on the pavement. Stars above, when he peered through the haze of the city's artificial glow. Where was the loft, where was his home? It took some moments to orient himself, and he found himself staring foolishly at the luminescent points embedded in the black sky, his head rocked so far back it nearly off-balanced him.

Jim, he reminded himself, must find him. Vaguely recognizing his location, he falteringly started toward the street.

Impossible to say what he first perceived. All at once he was aware of it. Of the warm living scent that curled through his nostrils, the flash of motion in the corner of his eye. And the scratching, buried by another sound, a low unwavering patter.

Heartbeat, a tiny analytical portion of his mind defined it. Far too fast to be human. A little heart in a small chest—he turned, spotted the green eyes of the alley cat, reflecting eerily in the streetlight.

The creature hissed, leapt, and quicker than thought he moved. Pounced before the animal could, and the warm squirming body in his hands. Claws raking through his skin, leaving long bloodless scratches and distant pain he barely felt, barely acknowledged. Its eyes were wide, its mouth pink as it wailed its distress. He blinked at the yellow-white canines, and then inexorably his eyes shifted below them, to the bristled fur around its neck, ruffled in the grip of his fingers.

Something happened then, what he didn't know precisely, but his teeth brushed against the fur, and then stabbing through it, through the skin, a rush of heat filling his mouth, his body. Beginning to assuage the thirst—

Too soon it ended, too soon he was pulling at a cold dead thing. He dropped it, backed away from the little corpse, a bundle of limp fur heaped on the pavement. The green eyes reflected the light still, gleaming from a pointed-eared head tilted at an impossible angle. A demon body, damning him with its murder.

His stomach twisted and he vomited, a pink, frothy liquid pooling at his feet. Even as he watched it steam he felt his thirst rise again, powerful as before. He could lean over, lap up the cooling blood—

Instead he ran. The night swirled dizzily around him and he kept falling, kept pushing himself upright again, had to keep moving, distance himself from that corpse he had created, that life he had destroyed, drawn into himself.

Jim could make this right. Jim could answer this, correct this, find the meaning and the solution.

Not human.

He wasn't yet ready to face what he was.

 

* * *

In the warm afternoon sun, Jim shivered.

He wasn't cold, and the tremor passed soon enough, so quickly that he doubted anyone noticed. But looking up at the daytime star, its rays a caressing heat on his face, suddenly filled him with an uncontrollable, unfathomable dread.

He hadn't been able to sleep again last night, after the dream had come and gone. It must show in his face, his exhaustion—people kept asking him if he was all right, did he want to sit down or drink some water or coffee? Except when he didn't answer him they trailed off in their requests, melted away to attend to their own duties.

Blair hadn't returned in the morning. It had been a slim hope but one he had been loathe to abandon. He withheld requesting an APB until noon. After that he refused to wait.

His partner's car was parked in front of the loft, and that was one of the biggest concerns. Jim knew he had taken it, to the University he had said he was going. One of the other professors confirmed it; Sandburg had stopped by his office. He seemed in a hurry, looking for something. Left around four, and hadn't been seen since by any living soul that Jim had contact with.

Drops of his blood had spattered the floor of that abandoned building. And the wolf had died in a glorious inferno.

They had no proof, Simon kept insisting. There was no sign that he had even encountered the killer. There was no body, and their murderer hadn't previously withheld his victims for any length of time.

Jim's revolver had been missing. He hesitated about telling Simon that. Blair, taking his property without permission—uncharacteristic. This thing had scared him, badly. Yet he hadn't told Jim about it. Or rather he had, but Jim had failed to listen.

"Not your fault," Simon insisted.

Alex Barnes, all over again.

Only this time they might already be too late.

He was going to find this guy. Dead or alive, whether or not he was involved. He was going to find this guy and take him down, personally see to it that he never harmed another citizen of Cascade again. Jim hardly cared that people might realize he was using his special senses as he combed the crime scenes one more time. Inspected the building floor again on his hands and knees.

The other detectives of Major Crimes let him work without question, gracefully stepping back when he entered the scene. Captain Banks frowned and chewed on an unlit cigar, following him all the while like a surrogate partner. Even the two Bureau agents seemed taken aback by his intensity; they made no protest when he dominated their investigation. Any comments were quashed before they left their lips by one hardened glare from the Sentinel's eyes.

If Jim recognized this it was only subconsciously, his mind entirely wrapped up in the problem at hand. Grasping at any solution. "Out the window," he announced, pointing to the nearly invisible black thread caught on a shard of glass. "Someone went out here, that's how he escaped us."

Simon carefully leaned out and looked down. "Jim, that's a fifteen foot drop to pavement."

"That's how he did it." They went outside, craned their necks up at the window in question. Then went around to the other side. "He didn't use the dumpster to get to the fire escape," Jim commented. "Unless he did it barefoot or in socks. There's no shoe scuffs except from Blair and me." Blair had been slipping, but all the same it looked like there were multiple sets from him. He had come up here again, without Jim.

"You're saying," Simon inquired carefully, "that this guy jumped ten feet in the air to the fire escape, holding a struggling woman? And then hopped out the other side? Jim, that's not humanly possible."

"I know." And Blair had seen a yellow-eyed demon.

Yellow eyes, like the wolf's, staring at him in supplication before it plummeted flaming to its grave.

The afternoon wore on, with him finding nothing, with no one else having any better luck. Dusk falling, and Simon came to him, "Jim, you should go home. You're exhausted."

"He's out there, Simon." Glanced down the streets, the streetlights casting hazy glows in the approaching darkness. "He's still out there, walking around here, and it's the second night since his last kill." His last kill that they knew of.

"I've got two cruisers patrolling this area, more officers on foot. People are pulling triple shifts to make sure there's constant surveillance. We might not get him tonight but we'll stop him at least."

"You'll try." They might succeed. They equally might not. "I have a better chance—"

"In the condition you're in now," the captain stated bluntly, "no, you don't. You've been up for a couple days with little sleep, and you're worried for Sandburg. Understandably, but you can't give up on him yet, Jim. That kid is one tough son of a gun when it gets down to the wire; he's come through before. And before you ask me if I really believe that—yes, I do. It's the only way to keep going. Don't assume the worst without proof."

But he had proof. He didn't tell Simon. No way to make him understand, no common ground to make sense of the vision. Nothing he could say that would adequately explain the undeniable, unpreventable truth of his dream.

Regardless, he was about to obey his captain's suggestion, was climbing into his truck when the report crackled over the radio. He headed for the scene without delay.

Little to see. Another dark alley, another body, this one a mere boy, dressed in a leather jacket probably handed down from a brother in another gang. His switchblade had fallen from his loose fist, evidently an ineffectual defense. The corpse would be taken to the morgue, a sobbing mother would identify the pale drained husk of her youngest son. Another victim dead, spiting all their safeguards.

He wasn't sure what it was, perhaps only a distant rustle, sneakers on pavement or hand sliding along brick. But he looked up, saw the figure in the shadows across the street, blue eyes glittering in the fringe glow of the streetlight.

Simon caught him staring, followed his line of vision and started. "God, Jim, is that—"

He knew he had been spotted; he pressed farther into the alley, all but invisible in his dark jacket and jeans. Not soon enough, though. "Simon, stay here," Jim requested, and bounded across the street.

He was at the far end of the alley, trapped between the high walls of the buildings around him and a chainlink fence. "Blair—" Jim began, and stopped.

The figure looked at him, blue eyes wide, transfixed on his face. Jim returned the regard, searching him, eyes running over every detail. Pale face with the tangled dark curls falling around it, surprised round eyes, stature made even smaller by the defensive hunched posture. A likeness, the very likeness in vision. In scent, a faint herbal spray, also known.

But the heart—there was no heart. Jim strained to hear, stared at the figure in a growing horror. There was no heartbeat, nor was there the quiet hiss of breathing. The chest stayed rigidly still, not rising or falling, air neither inhaled nor exhaled.

And yet the figure moved, walked, stood staring at him with its own look of terror. The mouth moved, and then a dry rattling, like bellows slowly compressed. At last a word, "Jim," faintly, softer than a moth's wing beat.

But he knew the voice. And the quiet, terrible pleading in that single name would have broken his heart, if only the familiar pulse had accompanied it.

He strode forward, and the figure retreated until its back rattled against the chainlink barrier. "What are you?" Jim demanded. He seized the arm, shook it. "Answer me, what are you!"

The mouth opened and closed, no words emerging, no breath. More roughly than he intended Jim pulled it away from its hold on the fence. "Why do you look like that, what have you done to him?" Shouting, and the creature cowering under his accusations, the way Blair never did, only perhaps he had never been so furious with Blair. Under his fingers through the jacket he felt icy skin, supple and giving but too cold to be living. "What are you?"

It mouthed, "It's me," then whispered, "It's me," and then it truly spoke aloud, "It's me!" and kept repeating it, like a meaningless, mindless recording, "It's me, it's me," growing ever louder.

Jim's grip tightened, and he shook it again, but the being wouldn't stop, until its cry became something entirely inhuman, a growl like a mad animal's. It tore its arm free, threw off Jim's hand without effort and then shoved him back, not gently but not with the strength it had just exhibited.

It growled again, and Jim saw its fanged teeth, its mouth wide and its once-blue eyes shining golden green. Then they were launching toward him, and he flung up his arms to defend himself.

This time its snarl was high, anguished, and then it was gone, springing up as if winged, clearing the chainlink fence almost without touching it and landing running, escaping into the night before Jim had even time to call out.

He gazed in despair around the deserted alley, whispered more to himself than to the fled being, "Blair..."

 

* * *

No need to track his fledgling, not with him staying so close. Probably not a conscious decision, but the bond he had with his master kept him on a tether, the conflicting impulses of his flight pulling him in a tight orbit around the one he avoided.

He felt the first time he fed as if the blood was poured into his own veins. Except the drink was far too small. Not human, no; his wayward son had sucked the last drops from a pitiful feline. He found the corpse in the alley it had inhabited, and others soon went the same way. Well, at least a series of unexplained cat deaths would not cause a stir among the local constabulary.

During the day the his instincts drove him to cover, curling up in the safety of the very dumpster he had climbed only a couple nights before. He'd eventually learn that he could walk abroad, as long as he avoided the direct sun. For now it was best that this new one didn't know how simple self-immolation was for his kind.

The master made his kill early, before the sky was black. A young man who presumed to threaten him; he laughed at the challenge of the boy's blade and took him the next second. A small cup, quickly drained, but sharp with the tang of youth.

When he released the body he raised his head and saw his youngest, watching, observing him in almost a clinical manner. He smiled deliberately, the vampire still golden in his eyes, and ran his tongue over his bloody lips. The fledgling did nothing, said nothing, only continued his regard.

Ignoring that stare he took to the air, the other too inexperienced to follow, and unaware that his maker circled back to look down at him from the rooftops. As much as his newest was drawn to him he was equally lured in return, gazing down in fascination at what he had shaped from mortal flesh.

For many long minutes he stood there in the shadows, watching as people hurried past, as a uniformed officer finally noticed the motionless body and frantically reported it. The expression on his pale features was hard to interpret; it could have been anger, it could have been grief. Sirens wailed, strobes flashed red and blue in his eyes, and he drew deeper into the alley.

Intent as the watcher was, his interest was no match for the intensity with which the watched stared at the other policemen who soon arrived. Knowing them, wishing for them, their company; yet at the same time repulsed by the other attraction he would be feeling, the longing for their life and their blood. When he felt strongly, how obviously his emotions shone on his face! More humanly than they had even when he was mortal—perhaps because he felt more deeply than ever.

The object of his greatest attention, the greatest power—ah, he recognized that tall one. His one-time partner, eyes narrowed as he examined the corpse, then looking up. Peering as if magnetized into the shadows across the way.

Somehow despite their distance their eyes met. Almost as if the mortal man could see his partner with the clarity of the vampire's eyes. Even when his fledgling moved deeper into the darkness the detective kept staring with unerring accuracy. His stride crossing the street was so single-minded the man might have been charmed.

From above he observed their exchange with interest. The recognition, then the realization. Striking, how swiftly the human grasped the truth and shied away from it. To the point that he didn't even perceive the creature he touched as the same man as his partner. There was more to this one, too—few mortals could penetrate the vampire's true nature, not with such instant accuracy. He had talents beyond what he showed...

And he gave a name to the young one. Blair, how perfect, how closely fitting a label, short and swift and an unusual mix of dark and light. His Blair, now, his soulless child. The pain in his face, how long before it became a constant brooding, a twin of his past son's shadows?

Blair's cry became a wail of anguish and once again he was racing into the night. Abandoned, the detective stood there, his partner's name falling unheeded from his lips. His expression was a mirror of the other's; matching visages of division. The agony of separation.

Immortals could in fact bond with the living. Did, often enough. But such relations invariably lead to such pain, to such loneliness, at last to separation eternally. As his son had never learned, or always known, and risked despite it. And paid for his risk in the end.

Best that his young Blair be taught the lesson now, spared the greater torture. All the better that he find the gulf between himself and his former life impassable. Severing this friendship would serve them both later.

Exquisite, the purity of their pain, for all the unholy nature of the divide. Strangely touching at the same time. He had broken not one but two men with a single stroke, spread his own suffering among them. Yet the burden of loss seemed none the smaller for all it had been shared.

As always blood, hot and flowing, would bring its own surcease. Far too early to find another victim; he should wait at least until tomorrow night. Right now the police would be searching for a serial killer, trying to find the nonexistent ritual, the order to his kills. They were too young and inexperienced to understand the soothing nature of chaos. But it kept them off his track. Two more nights before he could feed again. In the meantime he would benefit from the distraction afforded by his newest creation.

He pushed off the rooftop. Though the movement was nearly silent, on the street below the detective raised his head, frowned at the sky. Almost as if he had heard.

A most intriguing man in his own right. There was definitely more to him to discover. Another trick, to investigate the investigators. Find out what, and how, and why, this partner was so highly valued. Should he keep that half-made bargain, let this one be? Accept the life of Blair as payment for his partner's? But the strength in his blood was so evident...

Wait, and learn more, and act as he saw fit. Perhaps he should wait for the attachment to fully dissolve on its own, or perhaps it would be better if he tore the last remaining threads himself. Eventually what Blair did not learn on his own he must be taught.

And as he flew he addressed his fledgling, unheard, "Don't you see what you are now, don't you know, my Blair, my dark son? You are human no longer, and never—you will live an eternity like this, long years moving past, while you exist as a mannequin, a doll in the image of a man. Life without mortality's curse, but you cannot be what you were, cannot know others as you did. You are man's predator now, and no matter that he may wish otherwise the tiger cannot afford to befriend the deer..."

 

* * *

"It wasn't Blair," Jim stated steadfastly.

"You're sure?" Simon's expression was suspicious; that he even asked the question was indication enough of his mistrust. "It certainly looked like him..."

"It wasn't." Sharp in the face of his captain's disbelief. I don't know what it was... "Look, I thought so too. It was a mistaken identity on our part."

"Or wishful thinking," Simon murmured. "All right, we've got this covered here. My order still stands—you're going home. You're going to sleep. Got that?"

"Yes sir." Resigned, and weary. Too tired, too soul-sick to argue or attempt to explain what he had witnessed. He needed to talk to Blair about it. And he couldn't. That simple denial ached as much as anything.

"Jim." Simon's voice lowered. "I feel terrible saying it like this—but we got another victim. And it wasn't him."

"I know." With honest gratitude. "I'll see you tomorrow, Simon." He headed for his truck and home.

Tried to avoid listening as he approached his door, feeling for a presence he knew wasn't inside. No one; the lights were out, and no heartbeat.

But the being hadn't had a heartbeat. No pulse, not that he could hear. Not human, not even alive as he understood it.

Except it moved, it walked—hell, it all but flew, and almost that.

And it looked exactly like Blair.

A Blair who had been through the wringer, certainly. A worn and sickly Blair, the face too white, the hair with that strange oily sheen, the eyes...

The yellow eyes. Where had he seen eyes like that? The wolf, certainly, but that was only a vision. Not reality, at least not in the way he perceived it.

But he knew those green-gold eyes. They had been blue, of that he was sure, the same shade of gray-blue as his partner's. Then for that instant they had glowed yellow, and he had known them. Somewhere, somehow.

They had entered the building through the window, and the girl's body was there, and over it stood nothing. No person holding her. No sign of the killer.

White fangs flashing beneath yellow-orange eyes.

Blair had seen something. On his own, in the darkness, with ordinary eyesight and a powerful will.

And now Jim had seen something too, something he had never wanted to see, something he never wanted to understand, and yet he had to. Lives depended on it. Blair's life might.

Blair's life might have depended on it.

Vampires, he had said. Insisted. Undead, unholy, nocturnal, supernatural blood-suckers, composites of the dark side of humanity and personifications of the seductive nature of evil.

How did a vampire create more of its kind? What rituals allow a horror fantasy to reproduce?

Blair had gone hunting, with Jim's backup gun and the switchblade he didn't know Jim was aware of and that ferocious determination. He hadn't returned.

"It's me!" it had screamed.

Where did he know those yellow eyes, how did he recognize them?

Jim leaned against the window leading to the balcony, pressed his forehead to the cool glass, eyes closed but he could visualize his city still. Cascade's skyline and its buzzing population, stalked by an inhuman monster. Four at least had fallen prey to it; how many more? How many had fallen that they had yet to know of?

"Blair," he murmured. To the window pane, to the city beyond it. To the one man living in it that meant more to him than any other, more than his own life, more than his badge, more than all his abilities, superhuman and ordinary talents. "I need your help with this one, Chief. I need to talk to you. I need to see you again."

_Come back, Blair. I'm sorry I frightened you away. I didn't know. I didn't know, come back, my friend._

_Whatever you might now be._

 

* * *

It almost seemed like he could hear Jim's voice, calling to him, summoning him.

Blair raised his head, gazed dully over the empty streets. No one in sight, though if he cared to listen he could hear the presence of people inside their homes, talking, sleeping, watching television. Living their ordinary, beautiful lives, a chaotic harmony ruling them all. A song of which he no longer could sing a part.

Jim was not one of them. His voice was not in his ears but in his head.

Yet he still could hear the Sentinel's demand. _What are you?_

The rejection, the fear, even the...hatred had been clear in his voice. Never had he heard Jim sound like that. Not to the worst criminal, the most insane psychopath they had ever encountered. And never to Blair. The closest he had come was probably when first they met, and Jim had been half mad then himself, his senses spinning out of control and his mind following. He didn't think he needed the babbling of an over-eager grad student, and conversely Blair himself had had not a clue what to say to the living embodiment of his studies. It had taken time for them to learn how to talk to one another.

A skill now lost, and would it be possible to regain it?

He shouldn't have run, and not in that manner, but he hadn't chosen to act, hadn't had any control over the fire that ignited inside. Whenever it flamed the only way he had found to handle it was to leave it behind, race away with the speed he was only beginning to comprehend. Another ability to match the rest. Another compensation for the violation of his spirit. He could flee from anything.

Was this what his existence would be reduced to, endlessly escaping from life and death both? No. There must be more. There was his life. He had left no corpse behind, so it must still belong to him, Blair Sandburg. He was yet that man. No matter that every emotion he had ever felt, every thought he had ever had, was completely alien in his memory. He could remember them all with startling, inhuman clarity. But he couldn't understand what he recalled.

Close to his ear something hissed. He snapped around, spied the sleek black cat. Lean and rangy as all street animals that survived had to be, its golden eyes the only part of its form not melting into the shadows. Small as it was, it bravely defended its territory from the larger invader.

Pinning the animal with his own yellow-eyed stare he felt the desire rising in him, revolting, uncontrollable. "Get out of here," he hissed at the cat. Then screamed it, "_GO!_"

The creature bolted, ears flattened to its skull, recognizing with natural instincts the danger inherent in this not-man. Difficult to block his own reflexes, to hold in place and not dive at the animal,snatch up its tender life.

"Hey, um, man?" mumbled a human voice. "Everything cool?" There was a man in the alley near him, a young man, stringy blond hair falling in his hazel eyes. Dilated pupils and pulse accelerated; he was stoned on something. Yet still he cared, asked, "You okay? You shouted weird there, real loud..."

The heartbeat was rapid thunder, the plunging echoes of a waterfall running thick and scarlet in the veins. If he looked too closely at the thin neck he could see the pulse pumping below the ear, the face pink and flushed with the blood it supplied. Glistening moist eyes,rounded cheeks, everything soft and wet with life. His own hands clasped together were like marble, that hard, that dry.

"Go," he whispered. Tore his gaze away from the other man,the only real man. Louder, forcing old air from his lungs, "I'm fine,please go."

"You look sorta pale..." The man leaned down, squinting at him. "You sure you're okay?"

Then he was staring into the glazed hazel eyes. The man's expression was frozen in an absurd mask of confusion; he directed it, "I'm fine, get out of here."

"Go..." The man's echo faded into oblivion. He began to shuffle away. Slowly, too slowly; if he laid his tongue against his teeth he knew what he'd feel, the knife-like points. "Get out!" he roared,and the man turned, spell shattered. Eyes widened as they took in the transformation of the figure before him, and then the man stumbled away shouting.

It took all his strength to stay back, to press against the wall and not pursue him into the night. Hunted yes but never hunter, he vowed, knowing full well how impossible a promise it would be to keep.

Hunted indeed, because that man had surely gotten a good glimpse of him. Even if he chalked it up to the effects of whatever drug he was on, there would be others. The word would spread, something that looks human but is not human wanders the streets, and such a bizarre and deadly cross of identities could not suffer to live in the modern world. Beasts were to be conquered; it was their station in life. In death.

Jim had seen him clearly enough. Jim had seen enough to realize what he was. The Sentinel was a hunter, to the very core; this beast would be targeted eventually. What side of the line would he himself fall on, the hunter or the hunted, predator or prey, human or monster? Was the choice even his?

Or could Jim make the choice? Would he, could he find the man trapped in the beast's form? Of course he could; he was the Sentinel,he saw what others couldn't, sharper and deeper vision, too. He had seen the truth, the monster his partner had become...

He didn't want to face Jim. In a very real way he couldn't,couldn't see that rejection again, that horrified understanding.

Blair his partner, friend, Guide, could have confronted Jim without fear or timidity. That man wasn't gone. But he might as well be, for all the backbone that remained beneath his too-white skin.

It was impossible. He could never be what he once had been,and to attempt a return would be pointless, hopeless. Perhaps dangerous,given the nature of what he was.

_Come back,_ Jim's phantom voice implored, begging as the Sentinel never would, his own mind conjuring what he wished to hear. _Come home._

_I can't._

_Come back,_ it pleaded, and he knew that no matter his decision he couldn't resist the siren for long.

 

* * *

Despite his exhaustion sleep was long in coming, and when it arrived it was haunted by dreams. Not the prophetic vision of the previous night but vivid and frightening imagery that slipped from his mind the moment he jerked awake.

Once he was being chased, hunted, by the black jaguar he knew as his spirit guide. Then it was in front of him, bowing its great head and intoning words he couldn't understand. Its golden eyes sparked at him and the wolf passed between them, once again threw its burning body off the cliff.

He was in the alley, the creature before him wailing, "It's me!"and then it hurtled into the sky as a black bat, leathery wings brushing Jim's cheek. Kneeling by still water he saw Blair's reflection shimmering on the surface, but when he reached for it the liquid turned blood-red,staining his fingers.

The wolf howled as it fell, the cry trailing away into the wind with the smoke. He never quite could catch it before it leapt.

All the long night he woke with gasps, blinked blearily around the empty loft before falling back into the nightmares. Once he felt his lips shaping a syllable as he drifted off. Blair. A soundless call that owed nothing to his conscious mind and everything to instinct.

At last when his eyes snapped open he saw the gray light filtering through the shades, the cool natural glow that precedes dawn. High time to rise, though his body protested the motion, tired by the restless night. Of no importance; he forced himself up. Under the fatigue his entire self was singing with tension, vibrating like a plucked string. Something in the air, humming to his senses, alerting him to danger. For the entire week he had felt the sensation distantly, but now it buzzed almost aloud, impossible to ignore.

Last night, the thing in the alley, it had spiked too, but not with this pressure, an ominous air of expectancy. As he pulled back the curtains he almost imagined something would leap out at him. Could all but see dark form crouched on the balcony or dropping from the roof.

But nothing was there, and the city still was mostly silent, the few traffic sounds muted by the pre-dawn hush. Stretching overhead and into infinity the sky was salmon, the inside of a seashell bigger than the world.

He had a sudden longing for Blair to be standing beside him, going quiet in the way he did on rare occasions, when awestruck by beauty. The gray buildings cut into the panorama, their jagged geometry combating the splendor but unable to destroy it.

It was Blair who had taught him to overlook the flaws and admire the beauty behind them, Blair who had shown him how, when the city pressed its blocky ugly weight on his shoulders, to look upwards, the sky always startling in its glory. Even on the coldest of days the sun's beams were warm caresses on his sensitive skin, the sun itself too brilliant for him ever to look at except to admire out of the corner of his eye. Beauty over and all around, but it had taken his partner to reveal it to him, a gift Blair would forever shrug off as nothing. 'What are friends for?'

He listened unconsciously, became aware of it when only silence met his ears, an emptiness that should be filled with the soft heartbeat and quiet breathing of his Guide. Should be, but it hadn't been for two mornings now, and in a vague and upset way he was becoming convinced that it never would be again.

Over the square silhouettes of rooftops the first rays of the sun began to gleam, spreading golden fire through the shadowed streets, giving definition to the omnipresent light. Once the first shafts peeked over the skyline the rest soon followed, an orange orb rising in the amber sky.

When the final beam at last broke free of the horizon and ascended into the sky proper, he turned away. The ritual complete, the day now begun, and he almost reborn, rejuvenated by the light, the darkness in his thoughts not gone but scattered.

And something screamed, a pure and unreal expression of agony.

The cry was distant, too quiet for him to have heard it normally,yet it lingered in his ears long after the sound itself died. For a single moment he was frozen by his recognition of the pain; then he was running to the door. Elevator too slow so he charged down the stairs, his long legs taking them three at a time and still it wasn't fast enough.

Late into the night the block was mobbed with people, but now at sunrise it was deserted, cars only blurs as they shot down the empty streets. He didn't even glance around, his gaze instantly drawn to the single figure present.

He was on his knees, huddled in the long shadow cast by the cab of Jim's truck. White hands covering his face, white fingers wrapped around long dark strands of his hair. The hunched shoulders shivered as if chilled despite the leather jacket.

The clothing, the hair of the figure was as familiar as his posture was alien. He didn't need to see his face or hear his voice; all he needed was to understand how he was hurt, and how to keep him from further pain.

"Blair?" he whispered, crouching by the figure. Hesitating only an instant before laying his hand on the quivering back.

The words were hissed through clenched teeth, barely audible. "Out of...the sun...can't..."

Without waiting for more he scooped his partner into his arms, lifted him bodily and started back inside. Blair drew himself into a fetal position as if unaware of even being held, though he pressed his face against Jim. His arms were crossed over his head.

As soon as Jim stood Blair cried out, not the scream he had heard before but a piteous moan. Then Jim saw one of the white hands, half-resting on his arm. Where the sunlight touched the blanched skin smoke rose,wisps of steam curling up into the clear morning air. There was ascent, not of cooked flesh, almost more like burning wood.

Eyes wide, mouthing oaths he didn't know he knew, Jim hurried inside,trying his best to shield his burden from the sun's abuse. When he had slammed the door shut with one foot Blair shuddered against him, relaxing only the slightest bit. Rather than releasing him Jim carried him to the elevator, up to their home, now grateful that no one was present to witness this spectacle.

He deposited the shaking figure on the couch, went to the windows and tightly shut shade and curtains before returning to him. Examined who he had rescued with equal parts concern and dread.

He was now curled into the corner between the arm and back of the couch, his face pressed into the cushions, arms folded around himself. The back of one hand clutching the leather jacket was blistered, the pale skin bubbling with angry burns. Jim stared at it, unable to believe that the injury was caused not by flame but simply from the sun's rays. But he had seen it burn!

Only now could he afford to consider this, think over what he had done, what he had brought into his home. There was no doubt that this was the creature from last night, the white skin, the same clothing. Still no heartbeat, and the breaths came as low sobbing gasps that sounded forced.

But the dark curls falling over the jacket's collar, the shape of the hands grasping it, even the jacket itself—this was Blair, as familiar as he had always been, and yet so changed as to be unrecognizable. A Blair inhuman, a Blair with eyes that could flash like a wolf's and the fangs of a predator. A monster.

Vampire.

It couldn't be. Not in the hard-core world of science and reason,the twentieth century's clear delineation of fact and fantasy, nonfiction and fiction.

But he looked at the white burned hands, heard the silence where a pulse should sound, and knew the truth beyond myth and reality. Knew as well what to do. The flames of a funeral pyre, or a wooden stake driven into the quiescent heart, or purest of all the warm good rays of the sun, reducing the undead body to nothing but ash—

"No!" and wasn't sure if he spoke aloud. He abandoned the thoughts and the images following them, forced himself to reach out and place a gentle hand on the shoulder of his friend.

"Blair?" he asked. Not entirely sure, at the same time he was positive.

Slowly the head turned, the hair brushed aside. In spite of all he had seen in his life, Jim couldn't keep from gasping, from pulling back the smallest bit, hand dropping away.

The face was burned, far worse than the hands. The skin was blackened, charred, dried against the bone so the cheekbones were sharply defined, lips shriveled back from white teeth. The hair was untouched,thick curls a mockery of a wig framing the horror mask face.

And the eyes—the eyes were whole, soft blue orbs that seemed to contain the only moisture in the figure. Blair's eyes, staring out of an inhuman body, filled with pain and grief and a thousand other terrible emotions.

Blair's eyes without the spark that was supposed to light them, lacking the glow of life, of intelligence that always shone from inside. However deeply Jim looked into them he only saw more pain, agony raging through him, his body shuddering in its wake, his mind torn apart by the power of what he felt, the wounds not only on his flesh but seared in his spirit.

Jim's paltry medical training seemed not enough to even heal the physical injuries, yet he knew he was the only hope Blair had. An ordinary man would already be dead from the burns; he now was dying. Jim could see it in his glazed eyes, in the way his grip on the folds of his jacket was loosening, in the slowing breaths as the effort he made to breathe like a human became too much.

Something inside Jim was demanding that he let this be, that death was the only correct course, and for him to end the job was the only proper action. He fiercely overrode the impulse. This was Blair, his friend, his partner, his roommate and Guide and everything else in the world. No matter how he had been changed. And it was Jim's duty, it always had been, to protect him, heal him, save him. Love him. The form wasn't important; the man Blair, who he was, still existed somewhere inside this creature now.

And there might be a way to cure him, at that. At least heal his wounds and bring him back to himself. If everything else were true... "Blair," he murmured. Put his hand back in place on his shoulder,met the blue eyes unflinching and ignored the scarred face, "You need to eat..." Such an awkward way to say it, but he couldn't bring himself to actually verbalize what he meant.

Blair understood, eyes widening as he wildly shook his head in mute protest, hair twisting about his tortured face. Jim ignored him,seeing in his look that he had supposed correctly, that he could help him heal. "You need it," he said softly. "I don't mind. Take what you need." I've given blood before. And this was a more worthy cause still.

Blair shook his head again, and this time added in a choking voice,"No, don't—" But he was starved; there was hunger in his eyes, in the manner he looked Jim over.

Without thinking about it, without stopping to consider his actions,only conscious that he could do something, he raised his hand, palm up and wrist revealed. In the empty quiet he could hear his own heart beating, see the pulse vibrating lightly under his skin. Almost he could feel it, the blood pumping through the artery.

When he looked up, Blair's eyes were fixed on the same point, lowered lashes quivering in time with the beats. Silently Jim offered his hand, knuckles brushing his partner's crossed arms.

A shudder, and then Blair's hand lashed out, white fingers folding around Jim's arm, cold even through the fabric of his shirt. The eyelids shut and when they lifted the eyes were green rimmed with gold. Black lips pulled back from sharp canines and then he was lunging forward,not at the proffered arm but at his neck. Cool smoothness and then two tiny stings, like insect bites, and ice spreading from them, all warmth drawn with the blood from his body.

 

* * *

He hadn't intended to, had tried with building desperation to turn away and refuse the gift, but the heat was too close, the hunger rode too high. His mouth was locked to the source and breathing it in with great gasps, gulping at the liquid energy spread tingling throughout himself. Some resistance but it was too small, too weak to have any effect on his desire.

There was a heartbeat; he wasn't hearing it, he was feeling it, the blood moving through his system with the steady thumping rhythm. To have a pulse again, as if he were human, to be warmed from the inside out, like a human. This sensation wasn't like those brief instants in the alleys; it didn't end, it went on and on, he reveling in the simple joy of being a man again, not a monster...

But the heart was slowing, the beats coming with greater moments between them. Dying, just as he had, but it was still going, and he would stay with it until it had contracted for the final time, waiting,waiting for the last beat—

_No!_ With all his might, his new great strength, he shoved backwards, away from the source, away from that life-giving heat, plunged back into the cold barren darkness. Curled on his side shaking, the wooden floor rough to his too-sensitive fingertips, and unwilling, unable to raise his eyes and look upon the terrible crime he had committed.

He couldn't have, he couldn't have, never would he have hurt him,his friend, his Sentinel; yet the blood was tepid on his lips, metallic salt on his tongue, and now he could never deny the monster he had become.

 

* * *

He had been watching with interest, the shadows of the tall buildings offering more than enough protection from the sun's burning. A slight touch of fear when he observed his incautious fledgling heading for his mortal home, and so late into the night, the sky already lightening. With grim horror he watched as the sun rose above the rooftops, the beams sluicing down the streets to sear the young one's flesh.

Nothing he could do but see him take to scant cover and hope he could survive this. Too great a trial for most newborns, but this Blair was as strong in death as in life, his hold on his existence powerful as ever. It would take more than the risen sun to destroy him.

Then the man, his partner, emerged from the building. Went to him as before, drawn to him as if following an invisible, undetectable signal. But this time he seemed to reach an acceptance of what he found, lifted him and brought him out of danger without question.

Perhaps he wasn't what he had suspected. They were supposedly long dead as it was; impossible that one should openly welcome a vampire,go so far as to bring a vampire into their home, no matter how well-acquainted they had been in life.

And unheard of that one of the old guardians would present his blood,his life, to such a creature. This man had, understanding what he was offering and giving it all the same. Blair's resistance had been as impressive as before, but in the face of his wounds and his need it had been a battle even he couldn't win.

At first it seemed he had been triumphant, that the first life taken by this fledgling would be one so effective his very self would be changed for good, he becoming as he was meant to be. But instead he rebelled,at the final moment flung himself away. Then knelt unmoving on the floor, eyes seeing and not seeing the death, mind unable to grasp the magnitude of his deed.

Something all too familiar in the tableau. The mortal, lifeless on the floor, his son crouched by the body, his thoughts not the expected turmoil but a blank slate. Tabula rasa, everything burned away just as his skin had been by the sun.

Eventually this would have happened, inevitably he would have ended up in this position, but this was too soon, not eight hundred years but a mere three days. And yet his expression, his emotions, everything was as it had been before, that absolute surrender to grief.

No; he wouldn't give in this time, he would not allow this to end,let alone bring about that closing. The mortal man—he was not entirely gone. His heart still beat, faintly, barely a movement but it was there. His life had not been completely stolen.

_Get out_ he silently commanded his son. _Hide yourself and let this pass._ In the apartment above he felt Blair lift his head, hark to the order. Like a robot he obeyed, mechanically rising from the floor, with measured steps entering his own room and concealing himself in the closet.

While his son followed the only instruction left to his crumbling mind, he took the small celphone from his pocket. The former possession of a victim, now rightfully his property. He activated it, dialed the emergency number and spoke swiftly, "There's been an accident." Gave the address and broke the connection before any questions could be asked.

Then he settled in the darkest corner of the alley and waited, watching.

 

* * *

He tried to snap awake as was his custom, but his eyelids barely lifted, his limbs sluggishly unresponsive. His vision swum into focus gradually, long seconds before he could recognize his captain, croak, "Simon?"

The man swung around immediately. "Jim! How do you feel?"

"Like..." He was stumped as to an appropriate comparison. "Like hell." Almost he asked what happened, but thought he should know. Dawn it had been, sunrise, he gazing out the window...

Hearing the unasked question Simon began, "We found you in the loft—"and then Jim saw a crystal-clear image. Not just dark skin but black,burnt, and blue eyes shining out of the ruin. Blair's eyes, sapphire turned gold, he extended his arm to him and then the teeth at his throat,piercing, the world freezing around him...

His hand went up, rubbed his neck, fingertips feeling the two tiny bumps raised on the skin. "Blair—where's Blair?"

Simon shook his head. "I'm sorry, Jim. There's been no word."

Relieved or disturbed, he didn't know which himself, he sank back against the pillows. Spongy white hospital pillows; he was accustomed to these beds, but it was discomforting to wake and Blair not there, not watching over him. Unnatural.

The sun streamed through the light window shades and he squinted against the glare, suddenly wondered if Blair would ever be able to hold vigil again. Not in that golden glow—"What time is it, how long—"

"It's a little past five. You've been out for almost twelve hours," Simon reported quietly. "An emergency call came in that there'd been an accident at your address; when we arrived with the paramedics you were unconscious on the floor. Pulse thready and you stopped breathing,touch and go for a couple minutes there—you scared the hell out of us." For a moment he brooded in silence.

Finally the captain resumed, "I have a feeling you've already guessed,but your—problem—was blood loss, no other injury except those marks on your neck. He went after you, Jim. Did you see him?" There was worry in his tone, and even more urgency.

Yellow eyes and fangs against his throat. He barely hesitated."No. I don't remember. I was in the loft, but I didn't sense anyone." Anyone who didn't belong there, at least.

Simon sighed. "I'm not surprised. I was hoping—we need this guy now, Jim. All of Major Crimes is hunting his head on a platter. Between attacking you and what might have happened to—" He stopped abruptly.

"What's happened to Blair?" Jim demanded sharply, completing his sentence.

But the captain shook his head. "Nothing, like I told you. We haven't found a single sign one way or another, and it's becoming a big concern..."

"He's not dead," Jim assured him. Knowing that Simon would take the conviction as a manifestation of their bond, not as a simple statement of fact. Knowing as well that he'd take some comfort in the assurance.

He dozed. Simon was still speaking, a guard being stationed outside, but he couldn't keep himself awake against the lethargy of the drugs and the weakness of the blood loss. The captain left, he was distantly aware, and later a doctor entered, then a nurse to administer a pill he spat out. Didn't need more sleep than his body already was demanding.

Something was in the room, something slipped through the door and shut it with the faintest of clicks. Jim forced himself to sit up,throw off the tiredness weighing him down. Outside the shades the sky was dark, the night fallen.

He was standing in the corner, arms limp at his sides, the jacket sleeves hanging down over his white hands. In the dim room his face seemed to glow, it was so pale, and his blue eyes glittered.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, so softly the Sentinel had to strain to hear.

"Don't be," Jim told him, his own voice raspy. "I asked for it—"

"I should have been able to stop—"

"You did," Jim shot back. "I'm still breathing."

"Your heart's still beating." Almost an echo, the faltering breath.

"Yes," Jim agreed immediately. Unlike this being's, who stood so silent he might have been a ghost, a vision. But the grip of his hand had been like steel in its strength. "I told you to..." He couldn't fully believe it, even though he had indeed requested it, had brought it on himself. Couldn't comprehend what had truly been done. "It worked," he allowed instead. "You're healed."

Pale fingers reached up to touch pale cheek, as if amazed himself at the transformation, the skin again round and smooth. His face now was the very likeness of Blair's, except for the lost coloration. The eyes were as recognizable as ever. Blue, not yellow gold.

"And you're Blair," Jim said. "I'm sorry, before, when I doubted—Didn't know. You're still there, Sandburg."

"Yes..." Though he was slowly shaking his head. The words then spilled out. "Jim, I'm not, I was, Jim, I was. I used to be Blair, but I don't know—"

Confused, tormented, but the same voice, hoarser but still the same. "You're still him," Jim stated fiercely. "You're Blair Sandburg,my partner. No matter what that monster did to you, you're still my friend."

"If he's a monster," he gasped as if it was torn from his soul, "then so am I. He made me just like him, he made me what he is—" The pause broke the phrase, as if he couldn't quite verbalize the nightmare.

Icy claws ripping at Jim's own heart. "Did you—" those fangs,biting into his throat—"did you kill..?"

"No." A tremulous cry. "No, you were the first, my first human,he did the others, he killed the others. I had to feed, I had to,but I've killed...animals, in dark alleys..."

Then he was still Blair; there was no more doubt. But the anguish; a horror, Blair who had never so much as hit a squirrel in the road, now forced to killing with his hands and teeth, the brutality that never had entered his makeup now the center around which he acted. Brutal,the monster that had done this to him; from his evil this originated. Not in Blair.

"You're here now," Jim said, "you've returned. Now that I know about this we can find a way to beat it. And we can stop the monster from killing again—stop the vampire." He managed to say it plainly,without skepticism. Presenting the facts as he knew they were.

But Blair was denying them, head turning from side to side in negation. "No—don't you understand? We can't, we can't work together, we're no longer partners."

The stark certainty chilled him, more than any angry protest. "What are you talking about? You're here, you're not a killer—you've been changed, but you're still the same man, the same soul. I don't care how the sun affects you or what your diet is, you'll always be my partner. My friend. My Guide."

"That's what you say," Blair breathed. "But what do you feel?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do you feel?" Sharp, the commanding tone he mustered when pushing Jim's senses. "When you look at me, listen to me, sense me, what do you feel?"

He didn't close his eyes; he didn't need to think about it. He wanted to deny it but he couldn't; and he couldn't lie. Not about this; not to him. "Uncomfortable," he whispered. The voice with the unnatural hiss; the skin too smoothly white and cold. The heartbeat nonexistent, so that the figure was unreal for all its solidity, not alive for all its motions. Dead, death, murdered and murdering—"I can tell, okay? It's obvious to me, and it's disturbing—I know you're—you're not quite human. Anymore. It doesn't matter—"

"It does." The harshness of his voice—he was angry, upset,but more than that: he was deliberately exaggerating the very qualities that were so inhuman. Purposely raising Jim's hackles. "There's a reason you know. A reason for your abilities to evolve that I didn't know about. My senses are a match for yours—hearing, touch, smell...my vision's better, perhaps not quite as fine but almost.

"As a Sentinel, you're a guardian; your duty is to protect, written into your genes. Guard the tribe. From enemies—from predators. Such as the vampire killing now.

"Such as me."

How many way to kill him, and as Sentinel he knew them all, flashing unbidden in his mind: fire, stake, sun—No. "You're not a danger,"Jim stated. "Not to the city, not to the 'tribe' or anyone in it. No matter what you say, I know you're more than that, more than the monster. Whatever my instincts tell me be damned. You are still my partner—and together we protect this city, the people in it. You're not the murderer here, you never will be."

"Jim," his voice was furious. Enraged, and with shocking suddenness the vampire flared golden in his eyes. For all that he continued to speak, calmly except for the tremor in his words. "You don't understand,you're refusing to see. You're forgetting, ignoring, what happened this morning. I understand, I've been doing it myself, can't believe it happened so it's too easy to convince yourself it didn't—but it did. Unbelievable but I can't deny it, you can't afford to.

"I almost killed you, Jim. It wasn't an accident, it wasn't a mistake. And if you knew how, how easy it was for me...you wouldn't doubt what I'm trying to explain. I could have killed you, I all but did. And I might again. You're not safe with me. No one is."

"I believe you could have killed me," Jim said quietly. "Could have—but you didn't. You won't. I know you, Blair. You're stronger than this. You've already proved that. And I'll prove stronger,too."

"Look at me!" he shouted, stepping close. Opening his mouth to reveal extended fangs beneath glowing jack-o-lantern eyes. Monster. Jim struggled to keep from recoiling. "I'm a killer, I'm made to kill, I will kill, and then I'll be the murderer you have to stop! And you sense that, with all your abilities you know what I am!"

"Yes," Jim agreed. "You're my partner."

He looked at first as if he would protest, continue to argue what supposedly separated them. But something inside him shattered with Jim's affirmation; the yellow eyes went gray, the mouth closed, and the unnatural strength left his body as he crumpled.

Jim caught him as he collapsed, pulled him onto the bed rather than the tile floor. Then kept his arms around him as Blair began to shake,tightened the grip as if he were physically holding him together.

At last the tremors resolved into sobs, and Jim held him like a child,rested a cheek on the curly head and rubbed the back, rocking slightly back and forth. He ignored the strangeness of the sensation, offering comfort to he who so often gave it. Just as he ignored the unnatural feel of the shoulders under his hands, through the jacket cold as if beneath the skin flowed liquid nitrogen. Pay no attention to the terrible inner impulse, the one that screamed to force this creature back, demanded that he slay it as was his duty, end its miserable existence.

No; all that mattered was the pain expressed, and how through his support he could alleviate it. The tears that stained his hospital gown were hot as the body was cool and tinged scarlet. But no less meaningful regardless, and he felt each one as it fell, accepted every burning touch.

Slowly Blair returned to himself, pushed away and stood unsteadily. Red tracks drying on his bleached face but he made no effort to wipe them away, as if the gesture would be too human for him to attempt.

The look in his opaque gray eyes was too like his expression in the alley, when he had screamed his identity. About to bolt, and Jim spoke quickly to stay him, "How can I help?"

His mouth gaped for several seconds, and Jim could all but see the words on his tongue—how can you ask that? After all you've already done, how can you offer still more? For all its paleness Blair's visage was expressive as ever, his thoughts demonstrated as plainly through look as when they were verbalized. To Jim, at least, who had the experience to read what was shown.

Unspoken communication passing between their gazes; Jim showing only confidence, Blair gradually coming to believe it, if wary of accepting it. It was a great relief to Jim, to know that this facility had not been lost. Their friendship hadn't died when Blair's heart had stopped; tested but they could pass yet. They would.

And Blair understood. He nodded minutely, admitted, "I need your help," in that sibilant hiss of a voice. Jim waited, tense with anticipation, knowing whatever it was would not be easy. At last the vampire whispered, "I need to find my master."

The emotion in the final word—suppressed, coldly monotone and yet beneath it seethed all the anger and grief that had heated his tears. Jim shivered as he continued, "I need to find my 'father', find out who he is and why he cursed me this way. And learn from him..."

He trailed off, but Jim could complete the thought. Learn from him if there was a way to undo what he had done. He who had brought this about might indeed know how to reverse it, unmake the vampire and free the Guide from the ashes of his death.

It must be possible.

 

* * *

He didn't understand. Blair watched him work with a measure of despair, a measure of hope.

Jim was doggedly trying to disregard the state of his partner—his former partner. As if there was an easy way to overlook his missing pulse or freezing skin. In spite of the fact that whenever Blair reached past him for one of the files he automatically snatched back his hand. Avoided contact without thinking about it—to even approach him was an effort.

Did he think that Blair wouldn't notice; did he believe that if he ignored them these impulses would vanish, that in time he would grow accustomed to them?

Perhaps he did. Perhaps they would; perhaps it was possible. Blair didn't dare hope. At any rate, there was no way he could express his gratitude, that Jim was making the effort.

He was attacking this problem with the same determination that he approached any case. Calling on all his resources, those of a police detective as well as a Sentinel. Without telling even Captain Banks,Jim had discharged himself from the hospital and promptly returned to the investigation at hand.

Those at the station had said nothing, of either the hour or Jim's condition. They stepped aside when he advanced, answered his questions without asking any of their own. He barely guessed their deferential behavior had more to do with his expression than duty. Of course the reasons they thought were behind his ferocious glare were different from the truth, but all the same: they knew better than to get between Jim and threat to his partner.

He'd pushed avenues that had hardly occurred to him before. Uncovered details that had seemed inconsequential, now taking on an appalling significance. And brought them back to the loft. Back to Blair.

"Let's look at what we have," Jim began. Calmly, and Blair shook off his musings and listened. Almost managed to discount the way Jim's gaze slid away from his, never managed to meet his eyes directly for long. It didn't matter; what he had to say was what of more importance. "Three months ago there were two deaths in Toronto.

"Two members of the Toronto PD, a detective and a pathologist. They don't know if it's the same killer. The MO is different. Both of the bodies were found in the detective's apartment, not on the street. And only one was drained..." The swiftest of looks in Blair's direction and then his focus was again on the file. "The other—the detective was staked. Wooden spear, stabbed through the heart—no difficulties finding the murder weapon; it was left in the body."

To assure that the dead would remain so. Not rise to some hideous half-life—but if he had so died, for how long before had he walked? And the coroner, killed inside...

No need to ask questions; Jim was already answering them. "I thought this needed a closer look, so I contacted the precinct captain in Toronto. He was willing to talk—" Despite the late hour. Blair wondered if Jim had even noticed. The sky was only just beginning to lighten—he glanced at the window. Shades tightly drawn; it wouldn't matter when the sun rose. He felt no need for sleep himself, only the hunger pangs, and Jim was not about to rest.

Now he gave the details, the information regarding those first deaths that hadn't appeared in the Interpol report. "The bodies were found lying alongside each other. There wasn't any sign of a struggle; there wasn't any sign of an intruder, either.

"From what Captain Reese told me, it wasn't that unusual that she,the pathologist was there." He checked the report, "Apparently this Dr.Lambert was often at the detective's home. If they were a couple they were very discreet, but they were close friends regardless.

"Something not mentioned elsewhere—if it wasn't for the circumstances of their deaths, suicide would have been considered. The doctor had just lost a friend; the detective's partner had been shot, died only hours before..." He aimed another look at his own partner. Turned away and went on, "But obviously he didn't drive a stake into himself. So who—"

"He did it." He didn't know himself where even the words came from. But he recognized their truth. "The one—my master. Raised it..." Like lightning, flashing across his mind's eye and gone. He could feel polished carved wood in his hand, then only the smooth file he held, thin paper edge biting into his palm.

Jim waited. At last he murmured, "The detective—Nicholas Knight,if you buy that name. He was unusual. Had a reputation. He was a good cop, lot of collars. But here's the stuff I needed to ask his captain about. This Knight, he was on permanent nightshift, a precedent set before Reese joined the precinct. Supposedly had a rare skin condition that Dr. Lambert was treating him for. More than that, he never was seen eating. Anything, ever. And at least a couple times he had extremely close calls—nearly died, recovered faster...faster than was humanly possible."

Blair nodded, not requiring or wanting it said outright. They both understood.

"But all that explains is why he was killed like that," Jim said instead. "Not why he was killed. Not who did it. Or who murdered Dr. Lambert."

"What are these?" Blair asked. If he knew the answers...he might have them. Somewhere deep in a subconscious not his own. He didn't want to probe that unfamiliar darkness. Instead he examined the folder in his hands, removed the photographs inside.

"That's them," Jim told him quietly. "The victims."

The first picture, an attractive brunette woman, meant nothing. But the other image...golden hair and storm-dark eyes, and a mouth half-smiling. Yet no happiness in that smile, or in the slight furrowing between the brows. Rather a brooding pain, a shadow cast on his boyish light,present even in the photo of the dead man.

"The angel," and wasn't aware that he had whispered aloud until he caught Jim's curious gaze.

"When..." he tried to explain, "when I was dying..." If his hearing hadn't been enhanced he wouldn't have caught Jim's tiny inhalation. Pushing on, "I was by a cliff, I mean, I thought...there was a doorway,and he asked me to choose..." Impossible for him to continue, but Jim's eyes, at last meeting his own, made no demands. Patience in his look. Understanding. Blair could almost drown in the Sentinel's accepting comprehension.

Other concerns. This time he was the one to pull away. "This is Nicholas Knight?" At Jim's nod, "He is one—what I am."

Again, belief without proof. Knowledge that Jim embraced without doubt, only because Blair told him it was so. God, what power he had over this man, over his friend—why don't you understand? It's different now, I'm your enemy, why is that all you choose to disbelieve? Why can't I believe it myself?

Jim, who had always seen into Blair's heart with the same penetrating vision with which he viewed the world, now seemed blind to his inner torments. Could his eyes really be that opaque now, his face only reflecting the surface and not betraying his true self? How many times had he wished for that control—now granted it struck him with the same pain as every other element of this horror.

And Jim continued to speak, oblivious. "Could he have done it? Murdered Dr. Lambert? Not our psychopath but this detective?"

"Maybe," he forced himself to whisper. It rang so true. Yes...

"But why, if they knew each other? This doesn't add up..." It doesn't make sense. But what did, now?

The words, unspoken, hung in the air nevertheless. Blair knew he should be speaking, Jim counting on him to fill the silence. There were so many things he could say. The obvious, that their killer had slain both Lambert and Knight. That they were merely the first victims of a serial murderer, and the nature of either killer or victim wasn't the issue.

But that was wrong, false, and nothing would leave his tongue. He felt paralyzed, mouth and mind both.

Jim caught that at least, spoke softly, almost hesitantly. "Captain Reese gave me something else. Something he wanted to tell me—he sounded like he was waiting to tell someone. I think this whole affair has him more worked up than even Simon can get." The slightest smile, fading when it went unreturned. "I think Knight and Lambert were friends of his. They meant more than just coworkers,people under him. Three months later and he sounded like this still was hurting him.

"Anyhow—he has a suspect. Had one. No proof, not even enough evidence to warrant searching for the man. Only a vague hunch,but when he finally mentioned it—I thought this might be it. The man disappeared from Toronto the night of the murders. Reese hasn't been able to find one trace of him since.

"Detective Knight possibly might have had a connection with him. Apparently the suspect managed a club that Knight frequented; he also,"Jim frowned down at his notes, "he also had a radio talk show—some late-night thing—that the detective always caught.

"The trouble is, no one knows who this guy really is. Was. The club was owned by a woman who moved out of town and has proved untraceable;he gave the radio show from a booth in the club but wasn't paid for the airtime. He didn't even have aliases—he simply didn't have a name,at least not one publicly known. Any acquaintances he might have had are either incommunicado or flat-out not talking. That's the strangest I've heard yet—I didn't know you could live in the twentieth century without some kind of identity.

"The closest thing to a name Reese could give me is his radio persona—the Nightcrawler."

The Nightcrawler. The melodrama of the name was counteracted by the shiver that coursed down Blair's spine. Frighteningly familiar,recognizable and yet he knew he had no memory of it meaning anything at all.

Jim's voice broke the revelation. "Reese faxed me a photo of this Nightcrawler man. Just in case. He was sort of a minor celebrity in a certain part of town, apparently..." From another folder he took out the sheet, a fuzzy black-and-white copy of the distant photograph.

Blair grabbed it from him, stared trance-like down at the image. Dramatic lighting, a showman's flair, the man posed with a supercilious smile, nearly a sneer. Exaggerating the darkness, giving him the look of a classic villain, all suave wickedness.

The enhancement had not been necessary. Even in bright daylight his evil would have shown, in the serenely cruel set of the mouth, the cold-blooded smoothness of his brow. He lay one white finger beneath the eyes. Gray ink, but he saw blue, icy azure glaring at him. Never had he seen such an iridescent blue but in one other pair of eyes; and those never had that fiendish cast.

The only difference in the blurred image, the only quality uncaptured,was the madness. The insanity that he had witnessed didn't burn in this photograph; in fact there was almost humor. Mockery in the sneer,but at least a part aimed at his own self, and there was almost a whimsical tilt of the head, a teasing air. As if for all his evil this man could still laugh inside, as if some part of him saw the irony of the universe and honestly enjoyed it.

All the same, "That's him. My...the one responsible." The Nightcrawler. Yes; the name fit this picture, if not the man himself.

What had changed him, what tides could have swayed that ancient devil? He was older than he appeared, far older; weren't vampires supposedly immortal?

Was he immortal now? If he avoided the sun, would he too live forever?

"We'll find him." Jim spoke quietly but with great force. "He's still around, and I'll help you hunt him, like I promised. He'll answer for this." His gaze went to the window, the sunlight glimmering around the edge of the shade. "Tonight."

Blair nodded, thanking him with gesture because the words wouldn't come. Broke eye contact with the photograph he clutched and spared the smallest look at his partner, trying to convey the least bit of the emotion he felt.

Dropping the fax his eyes fell on the other two photographs. The detective. Nicholas. That was the appropriate name, no doubt there. How may years had he existed before the Nightcrawler ended that life? Was he too a killer, a murderer...

And yet despite what he had been, he had had human relations. Human friends. His captain, mourning his loss. And Dr. Lambert,gazing clear-eyed at the camera, a lovely, confident, intelligent woman. She had died with him—because of him? Had she known, had she understood? Was it possible for a human to love their predator, their enemy?

Jim shifted in his chair. Blair tore himself from his reverie,wondering how long he had sat motionless, gaze locked on those images. Time itself almost seemed different, rushing along, then pausing, as if its currents swirled around him without touching. Life stopped and began again with greater haste than ever.

He waited for sunset, for night to fall, dipping into moments that time stretched for near eternity and others that he blinked and missed an hour. All the while thinking, thoughts chasing in circles around his mind and coming to no conclusions. Jim finally fell asleep, a fitful doze. Blair's movements now were too swift, too silent to awaken him.

He watched Jim as he slept. His friend still, his partner. Despite that such as he shouldn't be able to have these. Nicholas had—he felt a sudden surge of sorrow, longing to know a man he had never met, and never could. They had something in common, what they were,and what their friends were.

Jim appeared so fragile. Never would he have thought that possible,Jim his partner, his Sentinel, the larger of their pair, the stronger. He was the detective, the cop, the one who gave the orders expecting to be obeyed. Who caught the suspects and cowed them with his mere presence,who wielded the gun and drove the car.

But curled up in his chair now, dark circles under his eyes hinting at his exhaustion. His weakness. His bones were like brittle wood; they could be snapped into kindling with a simple twist of white hands. His throat could so easily be crushed, so the chest would no longer rise and fall as he breathed, the pulse no longer flutter behind the ear.

He could hear the heart now, beating, delicate life and sweet blood. And faintly on the neck, when he looked closer, he could see the two tiny wounds, flushed pink as they healed.

Another time, another world, it seemed. He could not have done that, made those marks; never could he have produced such injury.

He nearly died. Blair mouthed it aloud, as if hearing it would make it real, convince himself. Jim stirred, didn't waken. A tribute to his fatigue.

Or to his trust.

Looking away, he again saw the photographs. Had Nicholas ever drank from a human? One of his friends? Perhaps he would have understood, what it was when you couldn't stop, when your world was reduced to a beating heart and the heat you needed to warm you, when nothing matters beyond those basic sensations.

How could he have forgotten friendship, even for a moment? How could he have forgotten Jim, until it was almost too late. He had nearly died, and you did that, he told himself, you all but killed him. Even if he can ignore that, you can't. Not ever. Too dangerous to even try.

At least until this was over. If ever it could be ended. Then he could turn away from this, try to pick up the pieces and mend what he had broken. And Jim would help. Jim who would never forget his friend, never forget what Blair meant to him.

He settled deeper into the couch and tried to avoid both the photographs' blank stares and Jim's sleeping life. Maybe after tonight he would have the answers, the solution. At least the knowledge to deal with this.

Until then all he could do was hope, and anticipate the confrontation. Facing the Nightcrawler. His master.

 

* * *

Strange for Blair to dare go to the bedside of his one-time friend. Stranger still for that partner to accept him. To bring him home again.

His newest son's unpredictability was his most stunning quality of all. Warping the world about himself, his existence carving a path through unknown territory. He had known the man was strong, that energy had drawn him to begin with. His ability to resist, the shocking independence of his mind—but this, now. It was almost as if granting him immortality had enhanced those very elements which were so uniquely human.

The increasing paradox of his creation fascinated him more than ever. The sun rose and he retreated to his domicile, pondering the growing complexities of this situation.

Dangerous enough that he had brought across, however unknowingly,the partner of a guardian. That the partner had not rejected him—had not slain him as was his birthright—that was disastrous. That he had assisted in saving that man, a born vampire hunter...but he could not have allowed him to die, not by Blair's doing. The consequences would have been too great to bear. For all of them.

Now, however, it was too threatening to allow this to continue. Action must be taken, and his child was his responsibility. Blair must be forced to acknowledge what he had become, and that realization required full separation from the mortal realm. To divide him completely from the life he once had.

At last night fell. He rose to join the darkness outside, haunt the streets and select a victim. The hunger was a fierce rising tide and he anxious to sate it. Then find his son.

Except before he even reached the windows he felt Blair's presence rapidly approaching. In a vehicle, the young one not fully versed with wingless flight, but definitely heading in his direction.

Of course he could avoid him as he had been. But curiosity held him in place, and he secreted himself in the deep shadows to observe before departing.

Was Blair following his instincts, or simply being logical in coming to where everything had been centered, where first he saw him and later the transformation had been effected? At any rate, he entered through the door this time, unlocked with the key held by his partner. The detective accompanied him up the stairs.

He watched them, knowing that even eyes as sharp as theirs couldn't penetrate the deepest shadows, and there was no other trace of him for them to sense, no pulse to hear or warm breath to feel. The presence of the detective, the mortal human, shone like a beacon in the empty building.

But it was his partner that drew his eye. His son, not retreating or hiding, and not so tortured by his own self. Not running or curled into himself, but straightened, assured. What a beautiful being he had created; he admired his work as an artist contemplating a favored painting. The dark hair so well complemented the white skin, the blue of the eyes so deepened as to not wash out in the pale face, but light enough reflect the night's moon. And the distant inescapable pain of his expression couldn't shade the beguiling innocence of youth. A countenance nothing like Nicholas's; and all the same identical to it.

The two, mortal and immortal, guardian and partner, climbed the stairs,walked to the middle of the floor. He frowned imperceptibly as he watched them move. The detective with ground-eating, dominant strides,his Blair all but bouncing in the broken gliding gait of the newly formed—yet both paces synchronized, every motion of one an echo of the other's. Staying abreast and always equal.

It was a physical representation of the connection he had witnessed between them. A bond; and watching it now, he saw proof of its endurance. He had encountered romantic love between vampire and human before, had felt it himself, the sweetly agonizing mixture of lust and need and joy. But this, almost tangible between the two men—friendship, yes, but love such as brothers have, that closeness. The only thing he knew of its like were the ties of vampires to one another, bonds formed in the giving and taking of the blood, the singular loyalty uniting master and child, father and son.

And yet his bond with his own son was superseded by this mortal relation. Almost out of his control he felt the vampire stir within him, the bloodlust mounting with the urge to kill. Yes, before anything could proceed it must be ended, this travesty of friendship. But not now; he must await the proper moment. Move too quickly and he could damage his son beyond repair, destroy all they shared. He had nearly made that mistake several times with his Nicholas, but the connection he had forged had survived every trial, excepting the last. Or even the last, if he dared recall those final words and believe them true...

His Blair, however, had still to be won over, brought across and yet still hanging onto his mortality. His hold must be loosened patiently,gently.

Looking over his son one final time, he prepared to leave unfound. Then Blair rocked back his head and shouted to the ceiling, his voice cutting through walls and windows to rise to the stars, "Nightcrawler! You're here, I know it. Come out, face me, whatever you did to me!"

A strange name to be summoned by, but one he had chosen for himself,and must accept as his own. "Nightcrawler!" Blair called again. "Answer me!"

The detective was scanning the room, sharp eyes peering for what he had glimpsed before and forgotten. Blair stood in the center and stared ahead, as if he could see his master before him. Confident that his command not only was heard but would be obeyed. As if he was speaking privately he said, low-voiced, "I need to talk to you, Nightcrawler."

Bravely and yet he was afraid; commanding and yet it was a plea. He should go as he had planned, ignore this challenge.

But he had never been able to resist the needs of his children. A weakness used against him before; a weakness that had killed a son, and yet he couldn't forsake that desperation, that honest entreaty. "Nightcrawler,"Blair whispered one final time, and he answered the appeal.

 

* * *

Out of nowhere he appeared. There was no warning, not the least signal. One moment they were alone in the dusty decrepit building,back to back, Blair barely hearing the words that issued from his own mouth.

The next he stood before them, soundless as he moved through the dead quiet, swifter than even Blair's new eyes could track. As if he materialized, a blacker silhouette under black shadows. Blair heard Jim catch his breath, loud in the stillness, and his heart beating all the faster. But his expression was as calm and cold as the monster's,staring him down with the defiant intensity with which he had faced him before.

The Nightcrawler. His eyes, focused on Blair as if the sentinel didn't exist, were pale blue, but they burned with the same fiery fury as when orange with the vampire. "You called for me," he hissed,shattered the stillness.

Blair took a step forward, between the monster and his Sentinel. Drew a deep, unneeded breath and said, "You did this to me. You made me into—into your kind."

"I did," agreed the vampire. "I gave you this gift; I made you my son." One hand lifted as if it would touch his child's cheek,but he did not reach forward. "My Blair."

"I'm my own man." He felt lightheaded; he felt the moments around him stretching into eternity, giving him every chance to frame his words exactly as he wished to speak them. "However you changed me,I am still my own self. You don't have any hold over me."

"Ah, but you are wrong." Was there a flash of amusement in those pale round eyes? "No matter how a son wishes it, he is still his father's. There is no way he can forsake the tie; it extends into his heart, flows with his blood. To break free is to tear out your heart. To die."

"Is that how he freed himself?" Blair whispered. "Is that why he did it, to cut himself loose from you?"

"Who?" the word a merest breath.

"Nicholas. Nicholas Knight. Your son."

Suddenly the eyes were golden, the fangs bared as the vampire roared,"You will not say that name!"

He felt it again, he didn't understand how, but he felt the memory as if his body were acting it out, bringing down his arm, the stake solid in his hands. "You did it," he accused. "You killed him, you drove the stake into him. A father who kills his son has no right to expect loyalty from other—"

The Nightcrawler's hand caught him across the chin with a force incomparable to anything human, throwing him across the room to slam into the wall. He heard Jim's angry exclamation and leapt to his feet to make it clear there was no damage. It stung, but the pain was already fading, the dizziness clearing.

The vampire loomed over him. "Do not speak of what you do not understand," he ordered coldly. "And do not presume to dictate the measure of my power over you."

"I will," Blair growled, bracing himself for another blow. "You're no father, you're not my master. You murdered me—" behind him he saw Jim's jaw clench, and prayed he would not interfere, "you tried to destroy me. You're my enemy, that's all I know you as, my enemy,my killer. The only power you'll ever have over me is fear, and now you don't even have that, because there's nothing worse you can do to me. You think you know me, you know my name, where I'm from, who I know. All I know of you is how I hate you, and that you're the Nightcrawler."

Without warning the laughter that had escaped him before bubbled inside, exploded out. He choked it off, "The Nightcrawler, you're a worm, you're not even a man, the only name you have is Worm."

And yet the monster did nothing, as if he didn't understand the insult,or was beyond it. He waited for Blair's silence before speaking,and then softly. "I have had many names, but the one that I have chosen as my own, that I have lived under for a thousand years, is Lucien LaCroix."

Had the vampire not already known him, Blair would have felt an insane desire to introduce himself, so politely formal was the vampire's tone. Lucien LaCroix, and that did fit him. It was a minor triumph to at last give name to the monster. It made him the slightest bit more human, that much easier to talk to him. At last he dared ask it,"Why? Why, when you could have simply killed me, or ignored me? Lucien, why did you do this to me?"

LaCroix's eyes widened at the name, and for an instant Blair wondered what mistake he had made in addressing him. But he replied readily enough, "I gift you with immortality, and you demand justification? Is it not enough that I choose you; of all the weak humans I have taken,it was you who I deemed worthy to take across, to grant this greatest of boons?"

"You think it was a gift?" He couldn't prevent his furious astonishment from shading his tone. "Man, what would you call punishment? And either way, it still doesn't tell me why—why did you select me?"

"I might as easily ask you, why did you hunt me?" was the calm response.

He glanced over LaCroix's shoulder. Saw Jim, watching them intently. The Sentinel wasn't moving. He wanted to; it showed in every line of his stance, barely leashing his energy, struggling to keep in control and not attack this monster threatening his partner. His heart and breathing were accelerated with adrenaline; the only reason he stayed still was Blair's almost imperceptible shake of the head. No, he silently requested, don't get involved. It's too dangerous for you. And Jim trusted his judgment in this, did not move.

The vampire's intense gaze was focused on him, demanding an answer. Jim would hear every word; there was no helping it. "As I told you...before...I was searching for you because you were hunting my partner. Because I knew what you were, and knew that he wouldn't have any way of defending against you. And I hoped, I thought..." God, what had he thought? That knowledge was power, that understanding the nature of the evil would give him advantage over it? With the clarity of hindsight he cringed at his own naivete.

"Of course, you did it all for him." Irony great in the monster's tone. Suddenly he whirled around to face Jim. "Tell me, sir,how does that touch you? If I had never encountered you—if you had never come to me, I never would have learned of him—never would have seen his strength. And he might have remained unchanged, the man you once knew, aging as you age, dying as you die."

He turned back, and Blair saw his eyes flash, perhaps a spark of gold beyond the blue. "You see, don't you," he rasped, "you understand the magnitude of what I gave you. All I have spared you. And you realize that this gift is yours to grant as well." His gaze slid toward Jim and back to lock onto Blair.

He knew what the vampire was suggesting yet could not believe it. "Never. I told you, he would never take that choice. He's not a killer!" No matter what I may be. "And he's my friend—I won't damn him. I won't destroy him the way—the way you do."

"It is your choice, of course," purred LaCroix. "Yours and his. But if you will not take him across, then take him. Complete what you began. If he is your friend—if you wish to keep his friendship,then bring it into yourself, where it will be preserved for as long as you care to survive. It is the only way for our kind, the only way we have to love a mortal, to hold their love."

"No!" Blair snarled, "you know I won't."

"Why, when you have already tasted his soul?" The vampire's shoulders rose and fell in a subtle shrug. "It is hardly a greater step to take his life. And he will die regardless. Whether at your teeth, or with a bullet from the guns men so casually wave around,or of the ravages of age—eventually he will fall. We are the only ones who are not prey to death, and you already profess to deny him that path."

"He always was meant to die eventually," Blair said quietly. "I always knew I would die. All mortals know that. We live with it—we actually live, we use our years the best we can. Do all we can with what we have—and I won't end Jim's now. Never. Like you said he's not immortal, but he's got plenty of time left, and what I know he'll do with it, how many more people he'll help—I'd never consider it. As long as he lives, as long as he can act, he's worth more than all of your endless life."

"Now you so speak," whispered LaCroix, "but how will you when he is dying, when the bullet has struck home, or senility has withered his mind in a tired body? You say all the time he may have left matters,but what is it to us, we to whom a year is a single heartbeat, a decade is a single breath? Time is relative, Blair. You'll soon learn that what is all-important to them is all but nothing to us. You must learn."

"No!" Blair returned fiercely. LaCroix's gaze dropped, heavy lids shadowing the blue eyes. Solemn; almost his aspect was sorrowful. As if disappointed in his son, or even worried. "He never learned that, did he," murmured Blair, new understandings forming in his mind. "Nicholas, your son. He was a detective, he was trying to act human,live like humans, relate with mortals the way you're insisting we can't. He did it."

"He failed." For all the anger in the vampire's snarl, his face was still, cold, empty of emotion. "He lost his game, and it killed him."

"No," Blair corrected automatically, "You killed..." He trailed off before he was visited with his master's rage. Instead he said, "But he killed her, didn't he. That doctor, pathologist, Jim said. She was his friend, and he killed her. Was it because you told him to? Did you feed him this garbage you were laying on me, about it being the only way for us to love?" He felt rage welling inside, so hot it burned away even the hunger. Fury for the death of that son, his brother Nicholas, whom he would have known and never could.

But—"No," breathed LaCroix. "He never would listen to me, for all I knew, for all I warned him of. If I had but acted sooner—I understood,and yet underestimated the depth of his attachment, the height of his emotions. I told him to leave, to separate himself, I tried to convince him, but he wouldn't go. He couldn't surrender his quest, his foolish, idiotic search for a 'cure' to this.

"If only I had seen...I could have ended it. If I had taken her before she became so crucial to him, so essential..."

Blair looked over, at Jim standing so still. His pulse had slowed, and his eyes—unfocused. As if he had zoned, but on what sense Blair couldn't guess. He should know, it should be natural to observe the direction of his interest; yet the instinct he always relied on was absent.

Or perhaps it wasn't a zone; the emptiness of the stare—as if his spirit was swallowed. A trance induced not by his senses but by the invisible pressure of the vampire's voice. At least he wasn't in immediate danger.

"If you had killed her," Blair heard himself say, "your son never would have forgiven you."

"Yes," agreed LaCroix. "But the pain he would have felt could not have matched what I experience now."

Slowly he stepped back, eyes still locked on Blair. "However,every choice is growth, every occurrence teaches one how next time to chose. Lessons mean nothing if one does not learn from them..."

He moved, and this time because Blair was watching so closely he saw the action, just managed to make out the blurred form of the vampire springing forward. He lifted Jim in his arms as if the man were a toy, pinning him to his side. Long white fingers shoved his head down, wrenching his neck back so the throbbing vein bulged, and LaCroix's fangs dipping close.

"Stop!" Blair screamed, and his master paused.

"If you do this," whispered the son, "then I will kill you."

"It is no less than your nature," LaCroix answered, and sank his teeth into the Sentinel's throat.

Blair was unaware of his own speed, his own defiance of natural law. He saw his own self move almost as if he were disconnected from it, saw his hands flash out of their own accord and break Jim free of the vampire's embrace, tossed him aside and reached for LaCroix.

His master tried to slip away but Blair was the faster. Clutching the smooth pale neck and distantly he recalled the first taste, the power like living electricity, sweet fire. He plunged his own fangs into that source and sucked hard, deliberately drawing the energy into himself. Strong hands tried to shove him back but he hung on, drinking it down.

More here than the heartless blood, the undead's life. He was drowning, not only in the burning blood but in the images flowing with it, an unending parade of memories of an endless existence. Pain,like sun's flame, charring everything. Not a still photograph but a living depiction of Nicholas his son, smiling in torch light. A black-haired beautiful woman bowing to him, kissing his hand, his cheek,and a thousand others, some living, some dying, laughing, crying, life's whole vista displayed. He saw a mountain afire and a girl laughing,blood staining her mouth. He saw a young woman gazing up at him in adoration, even love, before raising her eyes higher, to the stars.

He saw himself standing over a dead or dying mortal, and his son kneeling beside her, barely daring to touch one cool hand, and he saw himself bring down the stake that sent him to join her. He felt the pain as if he had stabbed his own heart, only instead of ending, fading into nothingness, it grew, expanded until every memory was tainted with it,every essence of his being permeated.

And he saw his own self, his true self, from different eyes,a frightened mortal man daring him to do the unthinkable, and then it was over, and there was nothing more he could do save to protect his child,preserve what he had made in death and fear and love and pain.

When Blair at last pulled free, his master fell, the vampire's large frame trembling as he lay gasping for breath. His back arched against the floor as he stared upward, harsh blue eyes wide with shock and anger.

Blair's shaking hand rose, pressed to his teeth, feeling the sharp points scraping his skin. The warmth of the red blood, still filling his mouth. And the many, many memories not his own engulfing his mind.

Footsteps behind him, vibrating the floor. He half-turned,saw Jim. No longer frozen in the vampire's paralysis, and not unarmed. He had yanked free a side of one of the decrepit window frames, a long narrow strip of wood tightly grasped in both hands. Crude, but the stake would prove deadly nonetheless. Blair's thoughts cried warning as the Sentinel stalked closer.

He brushed past his partner with only the briefest glance at him,raised his weapon high over the prone vampire. Something wild in his blue eyes, as if his will were subverted by instinct, operating under the almost-feral tendencies of an active Sentinel.

LaCroix glared up at him, hissed, "You think you can harm me? I know what you are, I know your kind." Jim paused, and the vampire went on, "You are as powerless against me as the Gauls' guardians were against my armies! I already have your partner, and you too will fall..." but there was a glint of fear deep in his eyes. He was too weak yet to stand or use his vocal tricks.

For a long moment Jim hesitated, and then with sudden unpredictability he brought the stake down. Arcing through the air toward the vampire's heart, about to stab through, transfix its still being and bring about final death, the same service LaCroix had performed for his own son not so long past. The same motion, final, deadly, ending an eternity—

"No!" Blair commanded, and Jim froze in place, the point of the rough stake almost piercing his master's coat. He realized after the fact the tone of his own voice, the vampire's order, even the Sentinel unable to refuse.

LaCroix shakily rose to his feet, with an impotent snarl batted the stake from Jim's hands. The Sentinel made no response, paralyzed,though his eyes were alert, conscious and angry. The vampire ignored him, turned to his son, "Wise." Then, formally, "I thank you for your assistance. While such methods are not deadly to me, that would have proved uncomfortable."

"I didn't do it for you." But why, why had he done it? Stopped Jim from doing the right thing. This monster, this murderer deserved death. He spoke without thought, allowing his mouth to say what it would, "I did it for Nicholas. For those who didn't deserve death,and only go on inside you now." Did he mean any of that? "And for myself.

"I have to—I have to know. Is there any way to change this? I know how old you are, all you've seen—you have to know. You have to tell me..."

Slowly the vampire shook his head. For an instant he seemed almost regretful. "No. There is no end, excepting death."

"It's never happened?" He heard his voice rise. "Not once? There's no possibility?"

LaCroix's eyes flashed. "Once," he whispered. "Once, a chance occurrence,one in many billion and never to be repeated. And very many have tried throughout the ages. All have failed. Always they will. When you choose living over death, it is a choice to last forever."

He stepped forward, and Blair moved swiftly to place himself between his master and his Sentinel. "I chose to gave up my humanity," he said softly. "But I never chose to abandon my life, or my friends. Or my partner."

"But you did. It was, you could say, part of the deal."

"You didn't let me read the fine print," growled Blair. "I had another obligation." Pointedly he glanced at Jim's still form.

For a long moment LaCroix said nothing, only returned his fledgling's steady stare. Then, so quietly the words hardly required breath,"I see I may have miscalculate. Had I known what your partner was,and what you were to him, before I brought you into this existence...it was foolish of me. Better I should have simply taken you, then him."

"Get out," Blair told him. "Get out of this city and don't come back. We'll kill you if you return, Jim and I. You said you know—'guardians', you called them. They're a danger to you,they're bred to slay you. Jim is one, the greatest guardian you'll ever meet. And I'm still his partner no matter what you did to me, I'll still watch his back as well as I can. Together we're a match for you. More than a match."

Still silent, the vampire looked from Blair to the Sentinel, broken stake at his feet, and back at his son again. Unspoken comprehension in his face, and then he soundlessly backed away, to the windows.

"LaCroix," Blair called across the dusty floor, and he stopped. Listened. "Lucien, you should know, you must know, it doesn't help. Every life you take, all the pain you cause—it just hurts more. I know you feel it. And it separates you from him. From Nicholas. Even if you don't believe he continues in anywhere but your mind, your memories—he's still there. Until you bury him under all the blood,and then he'll be gone forever."

The ancient being almost seemed to shiver, trick of the moon playing with vampiric eyes. His lips moved, silently mouthed words he could not say, of an apology, addressed to no one, or perhaps to his son, the one dead, the one surviving. Or perhaps only another illusion, shifting light animating the still mouth.

Then he was gone, noiselessly rushing into the night. A shadow blacking out the stars and finally nothing, no sign remaining.

Jim whirled, free of the hypnosis, trying to track the invisible form across the sky. At last he turned from the window. Met Blair's eyes without speaking, his own burning with hurt confusion nearing anger.

Blair shook his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I couldn't. He made me this, I couldn't..." He had no answer to give. And could only hope that none was needed.

 

* * *

As he spoke into the phone Jim's roving gaze fell on his Guide, immobile in the wooden chair. A marble statue but for the dark hair and blue eyes. "Yes. He's here. I'm with him now," he assured his captain.

All the same Simon sounded worried. "He's all right? What the hell happened?"

"Nothing. He wasn't..." Hard to keep his own voice calm. He wasn't used to lying, not to a good friend. But there were other commitments. "It wasn't what we thought. He left on his own,he should have told me, but...he's sick. He doesn't want me to give all the details, but it's pretty serious. I don't think he wanted anyone to know..."

"God." Hushed. Simon hesitated before asking, "How—how bad is it? It's not..."

"He's not dying," Jim told him, with another glance across the loft at Blair. On the contrary... "But it's not good. He won't be able to make it to the station for a while yet."

"So he's being treated?" Hopeful; when Simon thought he was speaking privately he wasn't so wary of showing his friendship with the observer.

Dammit, he'd want to know the truth, even if he wouldn't be able to believe it. He'd be able to accept it in time. Jim almost spoke, then met Blair's eyes, coldly blue and unnatural. No. "Maybe. We're—he's looking. We're hoping..." For the impossible,perhaps.

Some of that disheartenment must have come across. Simon said,"Don't give up on him. Like I said before, he's tough. He'll pull through whatever this is. I know both of you too well to think anything like this is going to stop you, as long as you don't let it."

"I won't. Thank you, Simon," Jim murmured.

"At least it wasn't as bad as we feared," the captain said reassuringly,and missed the breath that caught in Jim's throat. He continued,"I'll let everyone at Major Crimes know, we'll all be rooting for him. Tell Blair we're waiting for him to be back here where he belongs."

"I will. Thanks," Jim said again, and hung up the phone. Turned to Blair. "You heard, didn't you." With Sentinel hearing he easily could have, and his friend's ears now were comparable...

"Yes." That monotone, so different from his former lively voice,and he almost accustomed to it. Like getting to know an entirely different person. Not human. He stopped himself from listening for a pulse that would not be there.

Blair suddenly pushed out of the chair, the restless movement of a man who cannot sit quietly with all that happens around him. That motion was same old, finally familiar, and Jim felt himself smiling to observe it. His partner—his partner still and always—paced to the balcony, opened the doors and stepped into the cooler night air.

Jim followed. He had a sudden flash of the vampire, LaCroix,plunging out the window into the sky. Could Blair as easily take flight, ride unseen winds away? Pushing down the alarm evoked by the image he joined his Guide. "Hey."

Again with the statue routine, that brooding motionless stare into nothing. Couple of seconds before he responded, "I can't. I can't go back to the station, I can't work with you anymore, not thereat least. What if they realize..?"

"They wouldn't believe it," Jim remarked.

"Yes, but they'd know something was wrong, we couldn't hide it forever. I can't be who I was, do what I used to. I can't even go outside during the day—I can't get to my classes, I can't follow you, can't ride along..." His voice changed as he spoke, growing flatter with every word,instead of raising in pitch becoming less emotional as his distress heightened. "There's no easy way around this, you can't just write it off as a 'condition' or an illness or whatever you told Simon. Jim, what are we going to do?"

The Sentinel considered this for half a second. Then suggested,"Convince Simon to move me to the night shift."

For a moment Blair only stared at him, mouth paused partly open in protest, eyes glowing faintly through the darkness. Then he laughed,his short high chuckle that always sounded slightly forced, little more than a catch in his voice except for the humor it so infectiously displayed.

Jim could have cried, hearing it again. Instead he grinned, cautiously but enough to show. "I was serious, Chief. How else are we going to handle it?"

"How?" He scrutinized Jim, his concentration so intense it almost made his friend uncomfortable, but he looked away before the feeling became too much. Then, "You're serious. You really think we can manage this?"

"Blair," and now he was entirely in earnest. "How many things have you 'managed'? How many times have my senses gone haywire and you've figured out what to do, brought them under control when I thought it was impossible? Or calmed me down when I'm angry—Carolyn used to say she couldn't manage that with a cruise missile. Hell, you convinced Simon to let you ride along, long hair and all—you did that,you can do anything."

"You believe that?" Jim nodded soberly. But Blair shook his head, denying it. "You heard LaCroix. I believe him, Jim. He wasn't lying when he said it couldn't be done. And he wasn't lying when he said his armies had defeated the Gauls, either. I felt that,when I—when I took from him. He's ancient. If I could have talked with him, only for a few hours..." For a moment his eyes shone,not with a vampire's unholy fire but the enlightenment of a scholar. It faded too soon, however. "He's seen so much, but he never saw a way for that—for what I am to come back over."

"He hasn't seen everything," Jim stated fiercely. "And he even said it happened once."

"A one in a billion chance—"

"He's never known a Sentinel's Guide before. Or he'd know what he was in for. You told me once that all Sentinels had backup, their partner. Well, you're mine, Chief, and nothing's going to change that. No matter what some crazy vampire tried to do about it. We got rid of him. We'll find a way to beat this yet."

Another long and still pause. "Jim. I'm sorry—about LaCroix. You could have, I know you could have, I shouldn't have done anything—"

"I know. It's all right. I understand." He hadn't at first. At first he had been furious, terrified and enraged by the invisible hold Blair had on him. He had been in Blair's power before, but always in the past it had been his choice, his decision to put himself in his Guide's hands. That freeze hadn't been of his own volition, his will disabled.

Or maybe it had been his after all. Before Blair hadn't been able to produce that all-controlling timbre, and yet Jim had obeyed him,instantly and without question when necessary. Was this different? He had spent over three years trusting his Guide near-absolutely; if he could trust anyone with this power it would be Blair.

But how he had wielded it—that had taken longer to accept. Allowing the vampire escape—LaCroix hadn't been merely a criminal. More than the murderer, even—he had been evil, an old and ominous force that had to be destroyed, that needed to be destroyed. The Sentinel bearing the stake had been no more under Jim's conscious direction than when he had been stopped by Blair's command.

And yet he had been stopped. By Blair, who knew better than any mortal man the dangers of that monster. It had seemed the greatest of betrayals, the Guide going against his Sentinel to assist a predator of the tribe. It hurt deeper than anything Blair or LaCroix could do to his body.

But the predator was banished, the tribe safe. And Blair had saved the vampire who had damned him. His master. His father.

"I understand," Jim told him. "If you had let me do it—you wouldn't be the man you are. That you've always been, and still are. My partner. My friend."

"It's about friendship." A merest whisper.

Jim nodded. "Yes." Sounded familiar, the words more than the tone. "Exactly."

"I said that," Blair murmured. His eyes were focused on the sky, the stars fading into the morning haze. "A while ago, when we came back from Peru."

Jim did remember. Not with the same clarity Blair seemed to,his precise recitation of the phrase. But he knew it, and knew it as well to still be true, more important than before. He still needed Blair, as a Sentinel needed a Guide. But it was the friend that would stay with him through this trial, and it was for friendship that he would help him reach the end, for the sake of his friend that he would take on anything to bring him back, pay any price to restore the stolen life.

The air was warming; he turned his face to the east and felt the sun's heat begin to touch his skin. Looking back to Blair, "You better get inside."

Blair gazed in the same direction, eyes narrowed against the budding light. He hesitated a long moment; Jim almost feared he'd have to physically shove him back into the loft. Then he whispered, "I only wanted to see it," and slipped inside, silently, his progress to his room untraceable by sound or feel. Jim watched him to be sure, then glanced back to the sun. Rose red tip showing over the edges of rooftops.

"You'll see it again," he promised his partner, the vow aloud only in his heart. A breeze wafted by, stroking his cheek with tiny cold droplets of mist. What could he do to fulfill it? Nothing,other than search for the way back, and find it. Whatever it took.

He had heard the vampire LaCroix's words, understood what he had implied, what Blair had admitted. He knew why Blair had been caught to begin with, and that he hadn't known at the time did not absolve him from the blame. The Sentinel was meant to protect his tribe, but it had been the Guide who had sacrificed all for his Sentinel.

And what was Jim, if he was not willing to do the same? What kind of Sentinel—what sort of friend?

A light tempo of rain pattered around him, condensed water falling from the warming air. He retreated inside and closed the windows behind him. Watched a single drop wind its way down the glass to the bottom of the pane, and then he lowered the shades, shut out the sunlight beginning to scatter the clouds outside.

He could hear Blair moving in his room, the bed creak as he laid down. Even a vampire required sleep, apparently. Jim certainly did; it had been a long night. And many more to come.

He climbed the stairs to his own bed, laid down and listened to the final raindrops tapping on the roof. At last silence, not even breath downstairs. To himself he repeated his vow.

Then he slept, and waited for the next night to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> For those unfamiliar with Forever Knight, the events described in this regarding the deaths of Nicholas Knight, Dr. Natalie Lambert, and Nick's partner Tracy Vetter all occurred in the episode "Last Knight",the show's finale. Although these happenings have been interpreted in myriad ways, I chose (for this fic, at least) to take them at face value. I couldn't help but wonder how the survivor would deal with his loss...
> 
> Thanx for reading it all, triple thanx to everyone who wrote, encouraged, and threatened me, and endless gratitude to betas Becky, Signe, and my sis as always. :)
> 
> Remember, the Nightcrawler loves you all!  
> XmagX


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